


A Little Scrap

by Anonymous



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Team as Dads, Transformers Spark Bonds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 37,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ratchet is such a dad, even getting sparked up can’t stop his systems from activating sire protocols.
Relationships: Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Ratchet & Team Prime (Transformers: Prime)
Comments: 155
Kudos: 349
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my laptop, for every time it’s decided independently to switch to tablet mode. You’re the inspiration, buddy, never change (into a tablet, unless I tell you to, **please** ).
> 
> Brief mention of abortion toward the end of the chapter. That's about as low as the fic's going to get, after that it's pretty much me hastily scribbling down every scenario that makes me laugh.

Some creators would say they’d known from the moment of conception. Poems and songs had been spun around the moment two beings coalesced into one and the bond between them solidified into a new consciousness, a binding of all the features that had drawn them to each other in the first place. They said that their first words to their newspark had not been in any language that could be reproduced in a vocoder, but had been something deeper, something generated from those same basic codes that had gifted Cybertronians with the capacity to love.

Ratchet knew it was scrap.

Back before bonding was seen as a dangerous weakness and sparking was less rare (though never common; had it not been for the Well, their war would have amounted to little more than a spat between neighbors), he’s been more than happy to expound on all the biological realities that made those romantic fantasies impossible. Going to battle against misinformation, he brandished lecture notes as a spear, textbook chapters his shield, and years of peer-reviewed studies the cavalry to back him up. Source after source confirmed what any adult with a functioning logic center should have known: one would have no way of knowing whether they were a carrier _or_ a sire until medical tools had confirmed it.

Though it came too late to be of much use in his campaign to get himself barred from any social circles containing creators, the most damning evidence he’d encountered, the unit that would have bolstered his forces enough to _guarantee_ victory, turned out to be his own firsthand experience.

[[ _Decrypting personality component crtr_01._ ]]

The readout appeared while Ratchet was on monitor duty, watching the little blips of his teammates rove over the map while he waited for the signal to reel them in. The self-diagnostics feed was a software he’d had programmed during an outbreak of engine cough, back when the war was being fought in the trenches of Cybertron and you couldn’t walk two steps without a cloud of exhaust blowing in your face. He’d needed a tool to catch early warning signs of the disease in his code, and afterward had never had a reason to uninstall it. Most of the time, it scrolled unnoticed on the bottom corner of his HUD, alerting him that fuel processing was normal, gyro stabilizers were normal, t-cog alignment was normal, etc., and in recent years had shifted to such low priority he rarely processed the data, letting it naturally cycle into his deletion queue. Had he been doing anything more engaging than waiting for the signal to pull a lever, he would have missed it.

[[ _Integrating crtr_01._ ]]

He frowned. Though he’d expanded his knowledge of coding once the deficit of medical expertise among the Autobots reached critical levels, it had never been his specialty, and he didn’t recognize the file. Curious, he isolated the first half as a keyword and used it to search his medical archives, hoping its relation to other fragments would be a clue to its function.

Self-diagnostics continued to update him on the code’s development.

[[ _Personality component integrated._ ]]

[[ _Checking for motivation conflicts._ ]]

[[ _No conflicts found._ ]]

[[ _Sire protocols engaged._ ]]

Ratchet straightened up.

His optics flashed.

“Scrap,” he said aloud, a fact he would be teased for relentlessly years down the line.

_They’d—but that wasn’t supposed to—the Matrix didn’t allow—but, if anyone could have done it, Optimus—_

Optimus was out in the field.

Ratchet’s processor flew into action, all hesitation gone because Optimus was compromised and their fragile newspark— _their newspark_ , what the frag—was in a potentially hostile environment.

He tuned into comms while his fingers almost independently punched in the coordinates for the little blip on the screen that might as well have represented the total of Ratchet’s universe.

“Optimus!” He barked it in the same tone he’d once used to send residents scrambling.

: :Ratchet?: :

His new coding _sang_ at the sound— _that voice! isn’t it beautiful? so kind, so wise, so regal, a perfect bot and a perfect carrier!_ —and he had to remind him himself via memory playback of the last minute and a half why he’d called in the first place.

“As Chief Medical Officer, I am requesting your immediate return to base.” Now that he knew Optimus was safe, coding softened his tone, trying to tempt the wayward carrier back to safety.

: :Is this an urgent matter?: : Optimus asked.

“Yes.” He finished typing the coordinates and threw the lever, the ground bridge blooming open at his back, and for once couldn’t even think about the energon consumption as he waited for a response.

He felt like his spark was thrumming with the excess charge of his panic, and all he received in return was a curious tug on their bond, wisp-like from this distance. Ratchet pushed back with his apology ( _He’d yelled at Optimus!_ ) and concern ( _What if Decepticons arrived? What if the energon was unstable? What if the vibrations from Bulkhead’s mace traveled through the floor, up through Optimus’ pedes, and into his spark chamber, disrupting the tiny bundle of photons within? Was that even possible? Why had he been so blithe as to assume a wartime medic could skimp on reproductive health?_ ), hoping it would be enough to convince Optimus without Ratchet showing up in the field to drag their Prime back to base.

It was already taking all his self-control not to go ahead and do it.

: :Something wrong at base?: : Bulkhead asked, startling Ratchet. Though he’d intended to access the team-wide channel, he’d forgotten about every other Autobot in existence the moment Optimus’ voice had come through.

“Negative,” he managed to say.

: :BbbRREppTt vrrrmphVREE bp bp?: :

“Patient confidentiality,” he said in answer to Bumblebee’s question. “Just know that it is urgent Optimus remove himself from the field.”

: :Got it, Ratchet.: : Arcee’s confident tone somewhat settled Ratchet’s tense spark, though nervous static still crackled along his lines. : :We’ll get him out of here.: :

Ratchet smiled, sure that Arcee would know his gratitude even if she couldn’t see it.

“The ground bridge is open at your coordinates, Optimus,” he said, unable to look away from the bright center, each stray shadow making his systems hitch in reckless excitement.

There was a pause. Ratchet imagined the others gently corralling their Prime to the waiting ground bridge, reminding him of his duty to the CMO.

A burst of static as comms came back online.

: :I’m on my way,: : Optimus said, resigned. His curiosity prodded at their bond again, and Ratchet sent over calm assurance, his new sire protocols settling now that he knew his bonded was headed toward safety. Toward him.

It was difficult to put to words the feeling of stressed coding, the same way he hadn’t exactly been able to explain to the children what it meant to be bonded to another mech. They’d been able to understand the emotional bond as a form of heightened empathy, but there were no appropriate words in English to describe the deeper connection, the physical feeling of having one’s innermost self tied to that of another. In the same way, he doubted he would be able to explain to them what it was that had him staring over his shoulder after Optimus’ message came in, the flutter of excitement in his chassis that all the miserliness in the world would not be able to tamp down.

He thought he’d be able to control himself, but he was already moving the moment Optimus’ silhouette appeared. In the sole defense of his pride, he didn’t quite sprint.

And anyway, no amount of pride could have stopped him from pulling Optimus into a tight hug.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked, concern evident among his confusion now that they were separated by the mere plating of their frames. “What’s wrong?”

How did he answer that question? Though he had no intention of keeping this a secret from Optimus, he wasn’t sure the right words existed to explain their new situation. Ratchet squeezed tighter, focusing on the one thing he was capable of in that moment: holding Optimus close, knowing he was safe, knowing he would be _kept_ safe. At least for as long as their duties would allow. The sire programming was turning out to be more intense than had been implied in Ratchet’s med school readings, prioritizing itself over what were usually Ratchet’s primary impulses, like maintaining a gruff exterior and dismissing anyone younger than a millennium. Now it was just Optimus, and keeping Optimus safe, and making sure Optimus knew he was loved, and—

“Should you not close the ground bridge?” the Prime advised, in that infuriating tone he used when he was _channeling the wisdom of the Matrix_.

Ratchet grumbled in answer, withdrawing from the embrace but reaching down to entwine their fingers.

“The others?” he asked, guiding Optimus back into the base like they were a pair of newbonds entering their apartment for the first time.

“They remained to finish sweeping the mine.”

Obviously. Ratchet wasn’t sure why he’d asked, except that his processor was lost in a fog of anticipation for the coming conversation. He needed to say it. Optimus didn’t have the diagnostics program, so unless the Matrix had prematurely shared the news, he had no idea that he—that they—

“Ratchet, the ground bridge?”

“Right, of course, my apologies.” Ratchet forced himself to release Optimus’ hand and turned to the control panel, pushing the lever back to standby. Though the team was still one comm away, isolation came to settle over them, the way the light in the base dimmed once the swirling vortex had been shut down. He relaxed against the control panel, trying to get a handle on the blooming process trees that kept growing out of control every time he tried to figure out what to say.

He felt a hand over his shoulder, offering gentle, loving caresses. Did carrier protocols make a mech more affectionate? It would make sense, reinforce support networks that would be necessary in the later carrying stages to—

_Focus, slagit!_

He turned back to Optimus, took the free hand so that together they formed a perfect circuit. Optimus’ hands were larger than his own, but they fit together in such a way that Ratchet’s processor was finally able to settle with the familiarity.

“A few minutes ago, I received an alert from my self-diagnostics,” he started.

“Are you alright?” Optimus asked.

“I… I am,” Ratchet decided.

Though insufficient, the answer settled Optimus, the texture of their bond changing from corrugated anxiety to a wavy curiosity. Blue eyes looked on, giving space to continue. Ratchet squeezed those familiar hands and felt them return a pulse of affection.

“I’ve activated sire protocols,” he said. “We sparked, Optimus.”

Optimus’ optics flashed within a frozen expression.

“Oh?” he tried.

(Ratchet would later try to deflect the teasing by bringing this moment back up; never landed as well.)

Ratchet nodded and now could not keep the excitement from his movements.

“We did. We have a newspark, Optimus!”

The Prime’s optics were still bright, mouth stretched into a line that didn’t seem to indicate any particular emotion.

“The Matrix, though, isn’t it supposed to…” He turned pointed eyes down to his broad chest compartment, the container for the two most important things in the universe (plus the symbolic artifact of Autobot leadership). Optimus was well established in the field of mystical speeches about the mysterious, infinite powers of the Matrix, but remained apologetically lacking in his understanding of the physiological effects it had on his frame; apologetic specifically to Ratchet, who had made the subject his own area of obsessive research for the first few decades of the primacy.

“The exact limitations are different for everyone.” The line that was practically a requirement for closing out any study of the Matrix. “The evidence is there, though. Creator protocols are directly linked to spark health and status. Unless Earth has…” He was going to say _a native spark parasite population_ , but the thought alone caused his battle systems to request activation, so he shelved it and instead released one of Optimus’ hands to begin leading him to the repair bay. “Anyway, I’ll show you on the scanner. If creator protocols just came online, it’s unlikely you’ll have noticed anything, but the equipment should be able to pick it up.”

They entered the repair bay and Optimus sat on the medical berth while Ratchet booted up the nearest medical terminal. When a loading bar appeared on the screen, his processor took that as permission to imagine the bit: silvery plating, red accents (a chevron? audial antennae?), little round helm, large cyan optics, nubs to grow into tires once the t-cog matured, clean plating free of insignia, practically limitless storage space to fill with the wonders of the world…

The program finished loading and filled the screen; Ratchet stole the distraction to reassert himself as the ornery old medic, though he could not stop his spark from thrumming when he thought of tiny hands wrapping around a soldering iron. He retrieved the scanner and turned to Optimus again, laying a hand against the familiar windshield to confirm the placement of his spark. After so many years as friend, physician, and lover, he could have found it with his sensory suite shut down, but the pulse of warm life under his touch blossomed through his frame in a way he could not deny himself.

He passed the scanner over the point in a narrow angle, approximating a three-dimensional reading. It beeped to let him know it was satisfied, and then the data began compiling on the terminal, delicate measurements translated to essential diagnostic tools.

“Would you like to consider a name?” Optimus asked.

It was not the promise Ratchet’s coding longed so desperately to hear, but it was a kindness, nonetheless. In the quiet of the moment, as they waited for a machine to reveal the truth of their future, Ratchet’s thoughts cleared a bit and he was able to admit the actual prospect of their Prime carrying a newspark in wartime. It was a pain that again he could not put to words, almost like a burn but borne out of a deep pressure in his fuel lines, but it was dulled by the Optimus’ offered compassion: this new life was not theirs to keep, but for however many minutes the little scrap of photons had left, they could claim it as their own.

He was about to answer when the computer _dinged_ , a congratulations to itself on a job well done, and he embraced the opportunity to avoid the question.

“Here we are,” he said, filling in the silence for good measure. “As always, the Matrix at least has the decency to keep you in good health. RPM’s a little higher than normal, and energy concentration, but… hm.”

But beyond that, there was no excessive energy drain, no internal pressure, standard shape and density. Ratchet stared at readouts a few hours ago he would have called completely normal and could not understand them.

“Oh.”

Optimus’ spark was alone.

The pressure in Ratchet’s lines tightened.

“Ratchet?”

He shook his head, trying and failing to put on a smile that didn’t fit.

“Sorry, Optimus, looks like my old spark’s glitching.” His vocoder didn’t want to put the words together, hitching between syllables like failing to say it would stop the reality from manifesting. He reset it and tried again. “Nothing there, after all.”

Optimus’ optics flashed with surprise. Ratchet couldn’t blame him. He didn’t make diagnoses without being certain of his conclusions, and under different circumstances would have hesitated longer to admit such a mistake, ran several more tests and consulted his archives. His spark was aching with an emotion he had no interest in putting to words, though, and he had to dedicate his focus to getting out of the repair bay. Don’t think about the conversation Optimus would want to have later. Don’t think about—about that. Don’t think about anything. Just move.

Optimus stood from the berth but did not approach Ratchet, though every protective in that huge frame of his was probably aching to console his bonded. Instead, he stood back while Ratchet went through the motions of saving and filing the spark readouts, tagging it as a standard inspection.

“Do you know the source?” Optimus asked, offering Ratchet a problem to focus on that was not his own code going haywire. Or at least, a different way to look at it.

“I have a few theories,” he said, because coding still was not his strength and ‘a few theories’ really meant ‘chapters I need to review.’ It would take time to understand and debug, but from a physical standpoint, he already had the scanner primed for the task, so he turned it around and drew the same shape that he had over Optimus’ chassis.

“Let me know if I, or any of the others, can be of any use,” Optimus said. “I care very deeply for that spark, and if it is ailing would like to see it made well again.”

Normally such concern would have been a source of embarrassment for Ratchet, with a shard of fondness peeking out underneath. Now, his protective protocols just insisted that this was _nope, wrong, need to protect Optimus_. It struck him that he needed to get this glitch worked out as soon as possible, otherwise Arcee would accuse him of being a more extreme version of himself than usual: he hated losing arguments in front of the team.

The terminal _dinged_ again, and this time Ratchet turned to watch the results spill onto the screen.

_High RPM, understandably; below average density, which was a bit odd; the irregularity of shape he’d had all his life; elevated internal pressure, which…_

Energy stores were down 15% from standard. Not a huge margin, but he’d been tracking these numbers for millennia, charting energon consumption the way Optimus followed Autobot ships in battle. A discrepancy of that magnitude was something to investigate on a normal day.

After a day like this…

Ratchet laid a hand over his chassis, above his warm spark.

“Scrap.”

“Ratchet?”

Optimus was closer now, drawn in by the terrific blankness that had filled their bond. Ratchet tried to draw up something to fill in the void but was having trouble processing. Familiar arms were raising toward him like a part of his processor was saying it was _his_ job to defend now. Like a bit of coding had flicked on, a patch he wouldn’t be aware of because he’d never been fitted with the diagnostic feed.

“Well, Optimus,” Ratchet said, vocoder hitching for a brand new reason, “I might’ve found our bitlet.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ratchet ran several more tests, the nature and importance of which were lost on Optimus. He tried to be supportive, nodding along whenever Ratchet stopped to explain what he was doing, but for the most part his processor was a tumbling code of _something something_ heavy metals _something something_ wavelengths _something something_ sparkling—

And then a word from Ratchet’s rambling explanations would cut through the loops and he would be reminded, full-scale, the new reality of their situation. Any summarization Ratchet offered of his findings could be further condensed into the same conclusion: Ratchet was carrying their sparkling.

“But your code is telling you you’re the sire.” It wasn’t necessary for Optimus to repeat it, not when Ratchet had said it himself this many times already, but he wanted to assure his anxious bonded that he’d been paying attention through all the ranting jargon.

“Sire programming is modifying parameters within my actum synthesizer to improve survival statistics for the newspark,” Ratchet said. “So, essentially, yes.”

Optimus could have defined each of the words in that sentence individually, but the whole was greater than the sum of its parts and arithmetic was already a touchy subject for the archivist-turned-Prime.

“Could that be detrimental toward construction?” he asked, because that was what he really wanted to know.

Ratchet half-shook his head, paused. His fingers hovered over the terminal keyboard.

“Only in that, mid-crisis, instinct will demand I protect the perceived carrier,” he said. “But so long as we maintain normal duties and don’t put me on the field, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

Optimus swore he felt the Matrix tremble as the long-forgotten Fourteenth, Hubris Prime, shook with astral mirth.

“Otherwise, sparkling and protoform development are handled by the autonomic systems and aren’t affected by personality matrices. According to the tests, the sparkling is drawing energy at exactly the rate we would expect at this stage of development and my gestation chamber is in its final preparatory stages.” An unbusy hand drifted down to his midsection, hovering over the plating without making contact. Optimus watched it, feeling a twinge of bizarre envy: not to be the carrier, but to assert _himself_ as the little one’s sire, defend his title against—against Ratchet?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have his own coding checked up some time.

“Anything that could have gone wrong would have already,” Ratchet went on, oblivious. “We’re looking at a fairly standard gestation, provided the carrier is kept in good health, of course.”

That much, Optimus’ processor could handle.

“You mean yourself?” he clarified.

“I…” Ratchet froze again. Optimus couldn’t see his face, but his posture was that of a mech who’d just been cornered into considering self-care for the first time in millennia. “Yes, I sup—of course.”

This brought them to the point in the conversation Optimus had been most anxious to address. Naturally, in the spaces between tests, explanations of tests, and dumbing down of explanations, he’d prepared a speech.

“Concerning the sparkling,” he said while Ratchet’s typing resumed, “know that whatever your choice, you will have my full support, as your partner and your Prime. The tolls of gestation are—"

“I’m keeping it.”

Optimus’ spark stirred and joyous heat bloomed deep within him.

He was the Prime, bearer of the Matrix, symbol of Cybertronian life. Beyond that, the bond he shared with Ratchet was the sole treasure of his past life he’d managed to secret through all these years of warfare and destruction, and to see it coalesce into a new being was a gift greater than he felt he deserved. Excitement wound up into his coil of trepidation, a spring pulling tighter from within his spark.

“You’re certain, Ratchet?” he asked. “Is there the possibility that this is coding making the decision on your behalf?”

Ratchet stopped his work again, but this time he turned to face Optimus, expression difficult to parse. Their bond, though, zipped and echoed with the charge of their shared nervousness, though if Optimus focused, he could almost hear the deep hum of something vast and warm underneath.

“It’s impossible to determine which lines of code a decision can be traced back to,” Ratchet said, spoken with a confidence that didn’t match the tenor of emotions traversing the link between them. “Code builds on itself, conflicting protocols run simultaneously, and priority trees are constantly rewriting themselves to account for changes in the environment. Being a sire changes the way I consider the situation, but so does being an Autobot and an emergency vehicle. Maybe if the program had failed to integrate, my choice would be different, but it’s not my responsibility to make that kind of judgement.” He placed a hand over his spark and averted his gaze. “I’m keeping it.”

Optimus was so moved he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment by mentioning the slip-up. He offered a hand to Ratchet who took it as if by instinct, meeting Optimus’ gaze once more with a flare more akin to flame than circuitry.

“Your courage is enviable, dear spark,” Optimus said. “It would be my honor to join you in guiding this new being to life.”

The look he received wasn’t quite the grateful exuberance he’d expected.

“Of course you’re going to,” Ratchet snipped (almost a snap, but without the full disappointment). “It’s going to be your job to explain to the others when I’m guzzling twice my share of energon and somehow half as pleasant to be around.”

There: a humorous flicker in his optics. Optimus had barely a moment to appreciate it before strong arms were wrapping around his middle and Ratchet’s lips were pressing against the seam in his windshield.

“I love you,” his bondmate murmured against the metal.

Optimus returned the hug with one arm while the other hand cupped Ratchet’s cheek, tilting his helm up so they were optic-to-optic again.

“I love you, as well.”

“Both of you.”

They froze, moments from a kiss that would have knocked their gyros out of alignment.

“Did we—”

“Say that at the same time? Yeah.” Ratchet huffed, the annoyed sound useless to cover the amused glint in his optics. “I’m going to look into it, but I can’t make any— _mmf!_ ”

Optimus didn’t want to hear more about coding, or spark maintenance, or _scrap_ , any of it! Ratchet’s lips were _right there_ , extremely kissable, and by now it would be nothing short of a failure on his part to miss the opportunity to capture them with his own. Now that they had some (limited) idea of what the future had in store, it was like a switch had been flipped in his processor and every algorithm kept spitting out the same solution: _Ratchet_. That beautiful frame that had shielded and cared for Optimus all this time, the processor of unbelievable sophistication and power, both geared toward the most incredible task of fostering _their sparkling_. The hand that had been cradling Ratchet’s jaw now dropped to his chassis, fingers delving for the warmth of a living spark. It was right there, protected, nurtured, the safest place Optimus could imagine for it, and the thought caused his engine to rev on the spot, shocking a burst of laughter and twin growl from Ratchet’s own frame.

Ratchet pushed the kiss deeper while his hands reached up, searching for leverage so he could draw their frames closer together. Optimus relocated the hand that had been between them to the back of Ratchet’s neck so they could stand chest-to-chest while their glossae danced together. Optimus drew in the taste of Ratchet and felt something inside him start to go soft, their bond threatening to take on a spongey texture before a crafty hand sent electric fire up his backstrut, goopy emotions shocked into something much more urgent. Their fans both clicked on. Optimus felt Ratchet smirk into their kiss, the new excitement building up as it bounced between them.

They ended up on the floor: not a conscious decision on either of their parts, but by the time Optimus realized his aft had landed on something other than the medical berth he was too caught up in the feeling of Ratchet nibbling along his jawline to care.

Optimus underneath, Ratchet splayed on top, hands exploring downward, sliding over Optimus’ windshield, dipping into the seams between armor plates. Optimus’ engine growled when one stroked the near-invisible parting of his modesty cover and he allowed it to release, spike pressurizing immediately into Ratchet’s waiting hand. Slow, luxurious interfacing had its place in their relationship.

Right now, they needed to _fuck_.

A few beads of pre-fluid dotted the tip of Optimus’ excited spike. Ratchet picked them up as he swirled his fingers over the head, wrapping his hand around so he could smear the shine down in two short pumps. Optimus shivered as he felt plating glide over the smooth, sensitive metal, and he unshuttered his optics ( _he’d closed them? oops_ ) to watch Ratchet’s hand rub along his spike. It was nice, but not what either of them were really looking forward to, and a single glance between them brought Ratchet’s hand down to the base, then lower, shifting so his fingers traced the lips of Optimus’ valve.

Optimus, wanting to reciprocate, reached toward Ratchet’s own modesty cover, but his attempt was thwarted by Ratchet leaning down capture him with his clever mouth.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” was murmured between kisses. “I’m taking care of you right now.”

Optimus’ processor tried to flag something in the statement, but before he could devote thought to it, Ratchet’s hand started to explore deeper and he was distracted again, an expert finger slipping inside him, followed closely by another. His valve quaked at their touch and his hips bucked up to the sensation before being pressed down under Ratchet’s weight.

“Ratchet—please—”

“We’re getting there, Optimus, I promise.” The fingers pushed deeper, eliciting a whine from Optimus as they caressed the buried sensors— _Primus_ he was sensitive, had it really been that long since they’d last done this?—and pulled back out, tracing their path along the inner edge of Optimus’ valve. They pushed in again, and from there Ratchet started up a rhythm, in and out, fingers spreading and hooking to catch every node along the way. His other hand explored Optimus’ neck, feeling along the tender cables.

It was good, very good, but Optimus knew what Ratchet was capable of and felt an impatient, undignified sound bleat out of his vocoder.

“That charged already?” Was that wonder in Ratchet’s voice? No, didn’t matter, because those delightful fingers were leaving Optimus’ valve and whatever happened in the next five seconds would determine whether Ratchet was his favorite person in the world or a Prime-appointed slagsucker. His own hands grasped at the seams of Ratchet’s pelvis, feeling into those spaces that exposed the delicate wires underneath.

As it turned out, his attention span couldn’t even last that long, because at three and a half seconds he felt himself _yank_ Ratchet down in a clatter of plating and lust that communicated his desires far more effectively than he was capable of saying with words by that point.

“Sorry,” he said, hoping he could be heard over his own groaning fans.

“Me, too,” Ratchet said, and Optimus didn’t know whether it was apology or agreement before he heard Ratchet’s modesty cover transforming away.

The feeling of Ratchet’s spike finally sliding into him was _blessed, Primus-ordained, a miracle of nature, proof that good could exist in the universe_. When his hips moved this time, he managed to keep himself from bucking, rolling against the pressure as Ratchet pushed himself further inside. Optimus continued to play with Ratchet’s hips, but he could feel his movements growing clumsier as he dealt with both the motion and the sensations within him. He almost lost his hold completely and cried out when the base of Ratchet’s spike pressed flush against his valve lips, then felt himself _clench_ as the luxurious, slow withdrawal sucked against every sensor along the way.

“O-Optimus…” Ratchet’s vocoder clicked out.

He picked up the pace, diving into Optimus with a new sense of fervor as he drove them toward climax. He could see it coming, but it still came as a shock to Optimus when he hurtled off the edge, digging into Ratchet’s frame as overload crashed into him. Ratchet’s thrusts did not relent, carrying Optimus through and then on as he chased down his own overload.

Optimus was content with this at first, the feeling of Ratchet’s spike never unpleasant, but time drew on and it became difficult to discern whether Ratchet’s movements were _excited_ or _frustrated_. He removed his hands from Ratchet’s hips and leveraged himself up on his elbow joints, trying to catch his lover’s attention.

“Ratchet?”

“J-just give me a minute.” His vocoder kept popping with static that forced him to reset it. “I can f-feel it, I’m… I’m almost…”

His cooling fans were roaring and his movements growing jerky when the effort it was taking him to keep up the pace, and even then, Optimus could see his frame forcing him to slow down, optics unfocusing as his processor redirected attention to the needs of his spike.

Concerned, Optimus sat up further, freeing one arm to lay a calm but forceful hand on Ratchet’s pelvis, stilling him.

“Easy, old friend,” he murmured, the few words that had ever had any success drawing Ratchet’s attention when he’d become fixated on something, though a true Ratchet Scowl™ took the place of his prior frustration.

“I’m so close,” he grumbled.

“I know,” Optimus said, rubbing his shoulder; not erotic, just comforting. “Maybe we can try something else?”

“I just don’t understand,” he went on, perhaps oblivious to Optimus’ suggestion. “Physically, everything should be in—”

He stopped, hand slapping to his mouth as his optics flared.

“Ratchet?”

“The frame halts transfluid production to redirect resources to the sparkling,” he said through loose fingers. “I can’t use my spike.” The hand dropped, true horror dawning on the medic’s face. “I’m not going to be able to use my spike for _quartexes_.”

“I’m sorry,” Optimus said, and meant it, thought a part of his processor was considering specifying Ratchet’s definition of the word _use_. “Perhaps you will be able to find a workaround?” The look he received was not one that could be characterized as hopeful. “For now, would you like to finish another way?”

“Hm.” The far-away look in Ratchet’s optics had been reeled in but had settled into a glare that he directed at his own spike, as though he would be able to bully the misbehaving mechanism back into obedience.

“Ratchet.” Optimus lowered the pitch of his vocoder, turning it silky in a way that always managed to catch his bonded’s attention, and supplemented it with a finger under the chin; even then, there was a beat’s hesitation before Ratchet’s optics met his own. “Let’s get off the floor.”

Ratchet shivered; his plating rattled. Optimus felt a bloom of pride as he scooped up his lover and maneuvered them onto the relative dignity of the medical berth. The charge was still hot and high through his systems, the plating so warm Optimus was sure he would be able to hear the crackle of excess energy if he leaned close enough. That couldn’t be comfortable to be holding onto, and more than his own pleasure, Optimus wanted to make sure Ratchet could be relieved of the charge.

“No spike,” Ratchet said. “Anything else, do whatever it takes.”

“Whatever you like,” Optimus said, closing the distance between their lips.

Their movements were slower this time, more intentional as they eased Ratchet back into bliss. Glossae dipped and swiped over each other as they properly reacquainted themselves with one another’s taste, and Optimus swallowed the other’s hum of pleasure as his hand started to travel down Ratchet’s front. His fingers, designed to cradle, to shield, skipped past Ratchet’s spike and slipped those several inches lower, kneading at the hot, soft folds of Ratchet’s valve. Ratchet squirmed and shifted so he was sitting in Optimus’ lap, rolling his hips in time with Optimus’ movements.

He broke the kiss so he could mouth at the juncture of Optimus’ neck and collar faring.

He murmured something like, “Please,” though it was slightly unclear between the lapping and sucking.

“Whatever you like,” Optimus repeated, allowing himself to neither be distracted by nor ignore the affection. He pressed a kiss to the top of Ratchet’s helm and started to press inside the familiar warmth of his partner, leaving his thumb outside to continue swirling around his anterior node. A heady flare of _need_ whipped from Ratchet’s field as he stiffened, then relaxed, leaning heavier on Optimus as the latter curled his fingers against a sensor patch.

“Mm, r-right there,” Ratchet said, the air pouring from his vents heating up. “Right—mm.”

Optimus could feel Ratchet starting to slide down a bit, lost in the twin sensations of pleasure and exhaustion. He wrapped his free arm around the mech’s back and readjusted him, keeping them steady with one arm while the other hand continued its ministrations. Ratchet’s hands scrabbled like he wanted to help, but in the end, he just managed to reach around Optimus’ back and cling to his shoulders, letting the larger partner keep them both steady. Optimus could feel Ratchet’s spike pressing against him, almost throbbing with the same rhythm as his movements. He changed from a pumping motion to a swirl, feeling Ratchet’s calipers ripple in response to the new stimulus.

“Good, good, good,” Ratchet was saying, punctuated by hot, open-mouthed kisses against Optimus’ neck cables. “I’m so close, I’m, I’m— _ah!_ ”

His body stiffened as Optimus felt the calipers squeeze around his fingers. He continued to move, trying to draw out Ratchet’s overload, only stopping when he felt Ratchet slump his whole weight against him. His hand slipped out of Ratchet’s valve and went to his waist to help support him.

They didn’t speak, just held each other as their bodies cycled down. Ratchet’s fans spun smoothly, the air they exvented cooling down to a sweet breeze that mingled with Optimus’ own.

“I—”

It didn’t matter who had been about to speak, or what they intended to say. At the same moment, both became aware of the incessant, anxious pinging coming from the central console in the command hub.

The team was (had been for some time) ready for extraction.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re joking,” Arcee deadpanned.

“No, I’m _sparked_ ,” Ratchet repeated, more of a snap than he’d intended. He didn’t like saying those words. Not only was it embarrassing, the supposed oldest and most practical member of their team making a mistake that should have been reserved for new soldiers adjusting to living in barracks for the first time, but trying to convince himself of it ground against his emotional processors. Having to chant it like an unsuccessful call-and-response just added to his humiliation.

A series of chirps and beeps, and he couldn’t keep from dropping his face into his hand.

“Yes, like a protoform,” he said.

“ _VreeeEEEEee!_ ”

That didn’t have any meaning in Cybertronian or English. Bumblebee was just excited. Ratchet didn’t know whether he liked that more or less than Arcee’s reaction.

“Did you know about this?” she demanded of Optimus.

“Neither Ratchet nor I were aware of his condition before today,” Optimus said. “If you’re referring to the act of procreation—”

“No, no, please don’t,” Bulkhead said, finally breaking his shocked silence. He voice was squeaky and strained, like all it wanted to do was disappear. Take the rest of him, too, while it was heading out.

“Optimus and I have discussed it already,” Ratchet said, stepping in. No need for both him and Bulkhead to suffer at the center of attention. “It’s not something we planned for or expected, but we’re keeping it. End of discussion.”

“No,” Arcee said.

“Bwo?” Bumblebee asked.

“No, it’s not the end,” Arcee said. “You’re _sparked_ , Ratchet!”

“Yes, I’m _aware_ ,” he shot back. Every second he was being battered with reminders. He could drop into stasis and he would still find some way to keep thinking about it. “What _else_ is there to say?”

It went around like that a few more times. Reassurances that he could handle it, disbelief on Arcee’s part, excitement on Bumblebee’s, and Bulkjack in the background, looking like he was waiting to either wake up or for a scraplet warm to descend on him. Optimus was supportive of course, and filled in the details where he could, but since this was both Ratchet’s body and his medical knowledge at stake, there was only so much his partner could contribute.

“Have you even thought about what you’re going to tell the humans?” Arcee asked, just when Ratchet thought she’d run out of arguments.

And oof, that might be the sucker punch, because no, he hadn’t. He’d known he was sparked for all of an hour, the time evenly split between some mildly disappointing fragging and trying to juggle the emotions of his team like three unevenly filled energon cubes. There literally hadn’t been a minute yet to think about how he was going to lead Xenoreproduction 101.

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

Arcee’s vocalizer clicked up a gear, and Ratchet sank back in preparation for another round.

Like cyber-dogs when an energon goodie was dropped a room away, the children knew something was going on the moment they arrived in the base. They’d gotten picked up from school like normal, but all of them had arrived in a strange state. Jack seemed nervous, Miko even more energetic than usual, and Raf was shooting glances at all the bots when he thought no one was watching him. Added that Arcee and Bulkhead had disappeared the moment they got back to base, while Bumblebee had spent several minutes debating over whether he should stay or head out on a supplementary patrol, and Ratchet didn’t want to imagine what might have passed for small talk on their individual drives.

And now, he’d been left alone in the main room with the indirect attention of all three silent kids. He tried to ignore the way they stared up at him, distracted from their video game, but it was starting to make him feel self-conscious in way that put him off-balance, uncertain in his own frame. Probably a symptom of the mess of his coding.

Knowing that, though, didn’t mean he could turn the feeling off. He could regulate his fuel pump and decompress his actuators when they started to stiffen, but the mechanisms that provoked the physical responses would have required a mnemosurgeon to root out and put to rights. Something less invasive likely would have worked just as well, but his thoughts were racing and his processor as a whole was not a friendly environment for nuance, which was why when he turned on the humans, he did so with a snap.

“ _Well?_ ”

The older teens stared, frozen in surprise. Raf cringed and looked back at the paused video game, like he was trying to make himself appear innocent, and that was what got Ratchet’s processor to calm down just long enough for him to sigh and collect himself. He approached their platform, his heavy pedesteps drawing their attention again, though while they all glanced over, only Miko moved. She hopped up from the couch and walked up to the railing, arms crossed. Ratchet had read that humans found such a stance defensive, but with Miko it seemed much more active and intentional. Or maybe that was just the small smirk she wore while the boys behind her still had similar looks of trepidation.

“Sorry,” Ratchet said, mainly because he felt bad about snapping at them; not because he thought the little human needed it.

“All good,” she said. “Now spill. Is it cryptoslugs? Bulkhead was being weird the whole way to base and told me to just ‘stay here’ as soon as we showed up. Is there an infestation? Are we going to—"

“No, if we were facing a space slug infestation, there would be no need for you to ask about it,” he assured. Miko’s eyes widened, a familiar shine appearing that Ratchet hurried to distract her from. “There’s um, I…”

He prodded his bond. Optimus’ response came instantly.

“Ratchet?” He peeked his head around a corner. Had probably been waiting for this moment, if not outright eavesdropping. Ratchet rolled his eyes, though couldn’t help the fond smile that appeared when he saw his bonded.

Then he remembered the children were still there and hardened his demeanor. None of that right now, he tried to remind himself.

The children were looking concerned. Well, Jack was, mainly. Miko looked slightly rebellious and mostly unrepentant. Raf was the unreadable one.

“Is it about the protoform?” he asked, plucking the word seemingly out of thin air.

Ratchet wondered if his inability to parse the youngest human’s expression was simply his own denial refusing to acknowledge the knowing glint behind those glasses, and he let that thought distract him during the precious seconds he should have spent getting ahead in this conversation.

“The what?” Jack asked.

“Protoform,” Raf repeated. “Bee mentioned it on the way here, but wouldn’t say what it meant.” He looked up at Ratchet, who suddenly wondered if this might be Primus’ idea of a test. If he could get through this conversation with an alien, how hard would it be to do the same with his own sparkling down the line?

“Is it a kind of nerve agent?” Miko asked. “Or, wait, do Cybertronians have nerves?”

“No, no,” Ratchet said. He could feel Optimus’ amusement along the bond, which was making it very difficult to maintain his serious demeanor about this important topic.

“So, what is it?” Jack asked.

“I know a protohuman is an early version of humans,” Raf supplied. “Is it kind of like that? A Cybertronian dinosaur?”

That did break his composure, just a bit, a chuckle he disguised as a dignified, not-at-all embarrassed engine cough.

“No,” he said again. “It’s—"

“Aw, but that would be awesome!” Miko said. “Dinosaur wrangling, can you imagine?”

Despite how uncomfortable it might be to tell them about his current situation, the children were a soothing presence. If they could just keep talking like this without ever getting to the point of the conversation, he would be perfectly happy.

Unfortunately, like had been conspiring against his happiness today.

“Nothing like that,” Ratchet insisted, “though I supposed the etymologies get a bit crossed between Cybertronian and English terms. A protoform is the final stage of Cybertronian gestational development. It’s a newly forged spark’s first frame.”

A beat as the humans stared up, calculating.

“Wait, you mean like, a robot fetus?” Jack asked.

Miko got more to the point.

“You guys can get _pregnant?_ ”

“But what about the Allspark?” Raf asked, leaning forward. “I thought you came out fully formed.”

“Normally, yes,” Optimus said, stepping in around the onslaught of questions. “Occasionally, though, the interaction between two sparks can result in the creation of a third. A sparkling is produced.”

“Which then triggers the production of a protoform,” Ratchet added, inserting himself into the conversation again. He didn’t like having all the attention on him, but it made his systems rev even more to see Optimus in such a state. _He_ would handle the attention, the probing questions, not his bonded. He went on, “Sparking is an uncommon phenomenon. The progenitor sparks must be slightly asynchronic, to produce the necessary chipping effect, but not too much, or else—"

“So, uh.” Jack interrupted. Ratchet glanced down, slightly miffed, but let him go ahead. “Is Arcee, um—”

“Absolutely not.”

Arcee walked in, engine crackling with annoyance at even the suggestion. Ratchet assumed she’d been passing by at the wrong time, not inclined to wait for an opportune moment like Optimus had been, but he watched her carefully. The timing was a bit suspicious, that was all. He would give her the benefit of the doubt for now, knowing she’d probably earned it, for all the stress this would inevitably cause her. Arcee could be fiercely protective, and it probably wouldn’t help that her instincts would be competing with Ratchet’s own coding.

Remembering the coding, he forced himself to step back from where he’d started to insert himself as a shield between Optimus and the humans. Understanding prodded at their bond, giving way to amusement as Ratchet sank into mild embarrassment.

“Really, Jack, you think I would be that careless?” Arcee asked. Ratchet was grateful for her bluntness, at least.

“Sorry,” Jack said. “So, whatever Bee was talking about was just hypothetical?”

“No,” Ratchet said. He had to look away when all eyes turned on him again. “Not hypothetical.”

That got him three uncomprehending looks, a gentle nudge of encouragement from Optimus, and a rather pointed sound from Arcee. Ratchet sighed.

“Optimus is—”

“ _Ratchet_ is carrying a sparkling,” Optimus interjected.

There was a moment of blissful silence, letting Ratchet pretend he was on the edge of a dream, about to wake up.

The reality that crashed down was not the one he’d been hoping for.

“Ratchet’s _pregnant?_ ” Miko cried.

“ _Carrying_.”

“But it’s the same thing, right?” Miko was bouncing. “There’s going to be another Cybertronian in nine months? A mini ambulance? That’s gonna be _sick_.”

Ratchet quickly pulled up the Wikipedia article on human time measurements. For some reason, it was the one part of their culture he could never get to stick in his processor.

“It could be as long as 36 months,” he calculated, “or as short as eight. It depends on the sparkling’s frame type.”

“That’s a… pretty wide range,” Raf said. He was glancing between the assembled bots, his own hidden calculations hammering away. Ratchet wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

“Cybertronians can take a much wider range of forms than the tiny sample you’ve seen,” he explained, though even as he was talking the confusion didn’t seem to leave Raf’s expression. “Lazerbeak, Soundwave’s partner, isn’t an autonomous bot, but there are some her size, while at the opposite end metrotitans transform into entire cities and boroughs.” A thought occurred to him, and he rushed to reassure them, “Metrotitan sparks can only form in the Well, though. Shuttles are the upper limit of what Cybertronians can carry, and that is exceedingly rare.”

“Okay,” Raf said, with a tone of voice that suggested he still had more questions. If he wasn’t sure how to articulate them, though, Ratchet unfortunately wasn’t much in the mood to guess. He enjoyed opportunities to talk about Cybertronian anatomy, especially in cases that allowed for contrast with humans, but it was different when his own frame was the object of scrutiny.

“Well, when do we get to find out?” Miko asked. “Do you do a—a vehicle reveal party?”

“The sparkling will make its choice known when it’s ready,” Optimus said, placing a comforting hand on Ratchet’s shoulder as he drew some of the attention away. Ratchet leaned into the contact. “Once it has, I’m sure Ratchet will let all of us know.”

He would probably be unable to contain himself, Ratchet expected, but right now it was easier to lean into Optimus’ comfort than think about the future ways this sparkling would compel him to embarrass himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh in my defense, the world blew up.
> 
> So now, (almost) everyone knows and we can get this show on the road! Fowler will be read in later, either on or off-screen, but I felt like this chapter was getting long enough without yet another character going, “You’re _pregnant?!?!_ ” Goal is to keep them about 2K words with weekly updates from now on. Not sure exactly how many we’re looking at, but I don’t think it’s going to be a lot; this fic’s meant to be the equivalent of a highlight/gag reel.
> 
> So, thanks for your patience, and catch you next week!


	4. Chapter 4

Being a scout required several key skills: an ability to maintain focus, notice changes in patterns, and relay information to one’s teammates being chief among them, though not exclusive. Bumblebee liked to think he was good at those things. His responsibilities had certainly changed significantly since their arrival on Earth, but he maintained those core strengths and even with the changing circumstances remained the most successful at finding energon reserves in the field.

In a theoretical physicist’s perfect world, those skills would have transferred directly to his day-to-day life, and Bumblebee would have been the first to notice that something was off. Unfortunately, Quark had taken off to a distant region of the galaxy to deploy his theories in a slightly less “constantly dangerous” environment, and Bumblebee was a bit distracted. _Normally_ , in fact, he was decent at noticing differences in routine and attitude around the base. The others had their specialties (Bulkhead could pick up when Miko had a rough day at school before she’d even climbed into his cab), but he was good at reading the general vibe of the group.

But he missed a few signs that he would later reflect should have been obvious: the way Miko punctuated each sentence by wiping sweat from her brow, or how Raf climbed into the driver’s seat in the evening with surprising gusto. Little things he should have noticed and thought about and reported on.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, though. Ratchet was carrying a sparkling! That was big! As distracting as a towering energon crystal on the brink of fission, or a Decepticon tap dancing, as Agent Fowler would have put it. His processor was constantly caught up in trying to imagine what the new member of their team would be like and how they would impact the existing dynamic, cataloguing the ways its existing members moved around each other as they each adjusted to the news in their own way.

Bulkhead was going with nonchalant.

“I don’t think anyone can get used to foreign energon _that_ quick. I ever tell you about my time in the Wreckers’ personal bootcamp?”

It was early in the day, while the children were still at school. Bumblebee had just returned from patrol, Arcee just left, and Optimus and Ratchet were in a backroom worrying themselves over something sparkling related. It was unusual to not have Ratchet hanging around the main console, grumbling about system inadequacies, so Bumblebee and Bulkhead were trying to make the most of it. Bumblebee had just been relating the unusual burst of energy he’d been having in the mornings lately, attributing it to his systems finally adapting to Earth’s fuel sources, which prompted Bulkhead’s anecdote.

“It was out in the middle of nowhere space, a solar system that was a few rings of asteroids and not much else,” Bulkhead said. “We were stationed on one hunk of rock out of millions, well hidden from Decepticons sensors, and we were living off the fuel we dug straight from the asteroid’s interiors. Some of it was close enough to normal, but the rest? So concentrated you could put it through a diluter ten different times and still have it come out glowing bright enough to replace a headlight.

“Problem was, we didn’t have that kind of tech, and our fuel sensors were still operating on a volume standard. So, we had to drink it straight.” He shivered. “Tasted fine, if a little gritty still, but after a couple minutes it felt like your fuel lines were cooking from the inside out. We’d get to running so hot, we wouldn’t even need to bother with the furnace most of the time. Awful. I drank one every day.”

“VbweeVP?” Bumblebee asked, directing Bulkhead back to his original point.

“Oh, yeah. What I’m saying is, if I spent my last day of training nearly buzzing out of my plating because I’d just topped off with monster energon, you’re going to need at least a few more years before you start to feel anything new from the Earth stuff. Maybe Ratchet tightened a few extra bolts during your last tune-up?”

And there was the change.

Most of the time, Bulkhead was good about keeping on as though things were normal. He went on patrols, smashed up Decepticons, and remained a loyal friend to all his teammates. Whenever Ratchet was brought up in conversation though, or, god forbid, _entered the room_ , he tensed. It didn’t matter that he’d been the one to say anything; his plating sucked in, a clatter of metal that was especially unusual for a bot his size, who normally wouldn’t have so much space for armor to move.

Even more audible was the _look_ Bulkhead and Ratchet gave each other when they crossed paths: a quick glance, set expressions. Bumblebee assumed it was a mutual vow of silence, but he was pretty sure any efforts to confirm it would only end with him in the crossfire.

It was looking he might get swept up in the awkward anyway, when an incoming comm startled them both.

::Bumblebee, Bulkhead,:: Arcee said, ::ready for pickup?::

“Yeah, definitely,” Bulkhead said, scrambling to stand. “On our way.”

He was transformed and down the corridor before Bumblebee had a chance to submit his own confirmation. Moments later, they were both speeding down the road to Jasper.

Normally, this part of the drive would have contained some amount of amiable chatter. Nothing substantial—neither Bulkhead nor Bumblebee had yet reached the level of comradery Arcee had shared with Cliffjumper—but a pleasant background noise to fill the long drive.

Now, Arcee swept out of the channel as soon as they were out, leaving uncomfortable silence behind. If Bulkhead was trying desperately to pretend everything was normal and that nothing had to change in the wake of their recent revelation, Arcee was dead set on reminding everyone how very _not normal_ the entire situation was, but only through pointed silences and stony expressions, never words.

If Ratchet was going to disturb their balance by introducing a sparkling to their already unstable lifestyle, then she would retaliate with passive aggression that had infrequent opportunities to morph into something more active, particularly in the occasional skirmish with cons.

So caught up was he in pondering about Arcee that he almost forgot there was a speed limit close to the school. He slammed on the brakes, eliciting an ugly whine he knew Ratchet would chew him out for later.

Raf trotted out to meet him in the parking lot, arms full as he tugged his sweater vest off before climbing inside.

Bumblebee offered his usual chirpy greeting.

“Hey Bumblebee,” Raf returned as he started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

They caught up with Bulkhead and Arcee on the way back, where once again the drive dropped off into an uncomfortable absence of conversation. Bumblebee considered Arcee a friend, but it was a new development, something that had grown out of necessity once they’d realized they were properly trapped on this planet. When she was in a good mood, she was great company, but Bumblebee didn’t know how to approach her when she was feeling off like this.

Though, even if he did know, he doubted there would be much he could do. All of this was about Ratchet, and ultimately it would be on him to assure the team that he had a handle on everything.

And of course, all of this only considered the reactions of the team to Ratchet’s carriage. It would be an entirely different set of circumstances once the squeaky shrieky little bitlet emerged.

They arrived at base and deposited their charges at the same time, Bulkhead and Arcee wandering off while Bumblebee stuck around with the humans. Ratchet’s bot-sized video game controller side project had been pushed even further to the side for the time being, so Bumblebee couldn’t participate much, but he liked to watch them play. Before he could make it to the platform, though, he and the others were intercepted.

“You’ve changed your uniform,” Optimus commented, peering down curiously at the humans.

Against the anxieties plaguing the rest of the group, Optimus actually wasn’t so bad. Sure, he usually kept to Ratchet’s side and occasionally seemed adrift somewhere in his own mind, but as always, he had found some way to keep calm amidst the storm.

Bumblebee tried to follow his lead, looking down. Raf did look underdressed without his vest, an effect Bumblebee might have achieved by painting over his racing stripes. Still recognizable, but off.

“Our clothes?” Jack asked, glancing down at the gray short sleeve he’d opted for. “Well, yeah. It’s kind of boiling in here.”

“Abandoned missile silo wouldn’t have AC, right?” Raf asked, though the way he glanced up at Optimus, he seemed a bit hopeful he might be wrong.

“I believe there is some way to control the temperature,” Optimus said, looking around, optics darting briefly to Bumblebee, who could only shrug. Sure, this was their home, but a lot of it was based on human tech that he didn’t know how to work. Sometimes a prominent switch would turn out to do absolutely nothing, while stubbing his pede on a panel in one room would open a secret door in another. Ratchet had tried to map out the wiring when they were first getting set up. From what Bumblebee had understood from his angered mumbling over the next two days, it hadn’t gone well.

“Really?” Miko’s outfit wasn’t that different, but she did have a handheld fan up to her face. “Well, what are you waiting for? Crank it up!”

Optimus finally located the control panel and pointed it out. Since he was closer, Bumblebee reached for it.

A harsh hand swatted him out of the way. Bumblebee startled with a squeak.

“Ep-ep-ep!” Ratchet pushed him back. “Don’t touch that.”

Bumblebee stared at Ratchet, then the children, then Optimus. He didn’t know what to do.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, stepping forward until he was between his bonded and the scout, “what’s—”

“You’ve had the temperature in here way too low,” Ratchet said. He spoke with the tone he used when he was delivering a diagnosis: professional, without room for argument. “Your temperatures were all plummeting.”

“BooWAh?” Bumblebee repeated. He checked his temperature log, but nothing came up abnormal. Even the warmth of the base hadn’t registered as drastic enough a change to warrant a notification.

“I think it’s possible your sensors are off, old friend,” Optimus said, apparently having reached a similar conclusion to Bumblebee. “No one has reported any discomfort to you, have they?”

“Of course not,” Ratchet groused. “But none of you know will run a proper systems check before your engines start sputtering. Do you know how many times I have to nag Bulkhead to come in every time he gets his winch jammed? Saved us all a lot of trouble by taking care of the problem myself.”

Out of curiosity, Bumblebee switched to his own infrared. He doubted his was as sophisticated as Ratchet’s, but he could still get a general idea for what the doc was seeing.

He didn’t know what temperature their bodies were supposed to run at, so looking at the assembled bots individually didn’t help much. He did know, though, that they all should have been about the same, and so the fact that Ratchet’s plating was registering several shades brighter than Bumblebee and Optimus’ was telling.

He saved the file and pinged it to Optimus, who responded with both an acknowledgement ping and a curious glance. He opened the file.

“Ah.”

The way his optics flared caught Ratchet’s attention, who was narrowing his eyes with the look of a person who knew they were being left out of something.

“What?” he demanded.

“It seems there might be an inconsistency in your measurements, Ratchet,” Optimus said, still understanding. Bumblebee took another step back anyway, grateful he didn’t have to be taking part in delivering this news.

“What does that mean? I manually calibrate all my sensors, they should be fine,” Ratchet said.

“It seems there is an issue with the way the data is being processed,” Optimus said, fast enough that Ratchet couldn’t interrupt. “I believe you system is picking up the symptoms of your carriage, but your coding is registering it as changes in the rest of us.”

Ratchet scoffed, but there was something uncertain in it.

“That couldn’t happen,” he said.

“Why would it?”

All three bots looked down to Raf, who had come to stand beside Bumblebee’s pede. Not for the first time, he felt so grateful to have the humans around. If any of the bots had posed that question while Ratchet was in this mood, it would undoubtedly have been met with stubbornness. In the face of the tiny, intelligent, curious human, though, Ratchet’s resolve wavered.

“I—well—” Ratchet looked up at Optimus and slumped, defeated. “Cybertronian coding is complicated.”

It was the closest to an admission of defeat that they were going to get, and he didn’t try to step in the way again when Bumblebee made for the thermostat.

“Indeed,” Optimus said. “We should go over the list of symptoms again and consider if there are others you’ve been overlooking.”

Bumblebee thought back to the potent energon rations, how it had suddenly seemed like he could go so much further on the same amount of fuel. A higher concentration blend could certainly have accounted for a change like that, especially the kind a carrying frame would start to crave.

Well, it had taken the children’s involvement for anyone to mention the heat spike. Maybe he would be able to get a few more races in before anyone noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind comments on the last chapter! Haven't been on a schedule in ~5 years, so there are some kinks to work out in the process, but so far it's going according to plan. I'm going to be out in the middle of nowhere next week, but hopefully there'll be enough reception for me to hit "post." If I don't quite make it, it's something to do with that :P


	5. Chapter 5

Ratchet waited for the last snap of plasma to indicate his teammates were through the groundbridge before he rolled the lever back into standby position, the final swirling hum of the machinery dropping the base into silence.

He glanced around, as though to confirm he was properly alone. Anticipating a run-in with the Decepticons, he had urged Optimus to take everyone, which meant he was alone for the first time since his announcement.

He vented, uncurled his fingers from the lever, and moved over to his workbench, where he’d been working on minor repairs of a few tools. It was simple work, almost mindless, and he let himself slip into the easy routine. Working with his hands, finding a problem and enacting the solution: it came as a comfort, and he let himself drop into the familiarity.

It took him a moment to realize the elevator was coming down.

He set what he’d been working on back down on the bench and straightened up. He watched the doors slide open, as per protocol; no one wanted an unexpected guest slipping in.

Luckily, it was just Agent Fowler, stepping in with his usual professional demeanor. Ratchet had been enjoying the gift of being alone for a few minutes, but he felt at least like he could handle this particular human.

“Agent Fowler,” he greeted.

“Ratchet,” he returned. “Just stopping by to check in on things. Where’s the team?”

“Energon run,” Ratchet said, turning his attention back to his tools. “Did you want to speak to Optimus? He’ll probably be out another hour, longer if they run into trouble.” He hoped that didn’t happen, but on this planet, it was always best to be prepared. He and Optimus had been working on contingency plans in case the team was incapacitated to minimize the need for Ratchet to step onto the field, but only a couple had been finalized. Until they had something more comprehensive, all team members were supposed to be acting with an extra level of caution.

Some he expected to be better at seeing that through than others. It was all a work in progress.

“Not necessary,” Fowler said, “I can wait for his usual report.”

“Hm. Well, good seeing you, then.” He didn’t look up from his work, hoping it would give the human an idea of how much he meant that.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _like_ Fowler. Out of all the humans Ratchet had encountered in his life (thankfully not many), he was probably the easiest to be in the presence of. His company didn’t demand much energy, and he was confident enough to lead conversations on his own without the weird need for smalltalk all the others were so worried about. Ratchet suspected it had something to do with their lack of energy fields, having to actively engage with each other to find out how they were feeling. Seemed exhausting.

And that was the root of it. Fowler was acceptable, as far as humans went, but Ratchet wasn’t sure he even had the energy for the least demanding person right then. The last days had been stressful, full of worrying and studying and awkward conversations and constant scrutiny, and at this point he just needed some time without any of it.

But, glancing up, he doubted he was going to get it. Fowler hadn’t moved, and actually seemed to be watching Ratchet. Not his hands, which were partially buried in an old generator, but his optics.

“Something I should know about?” Fowler asked.

“Asking to know how a Cybertronian generator works?” Deflection was Ratchet’s automatic reaction. Never mind that the impending conversation was one he knew would have to happen, but he couldn’t bring himself to enter into it without a little fight.

“My superiors would love for me to get that information, I’m sure, but it can wait for another day,” Fowler said. “Have something to report, soldier?”

Ratchet paused. He pulled his oil-slicked hands from the generator, fighting the itch to press one against his chest. He pointed to it.

“I’m carrying a newspark,” he said. “By my calculations, it’s about three weeks old.”

Fowler’s eyes widened a bit, but that was it. No surprised exclamations or substantial change in body language. He stared at the spot Ratchet pointed to until the tension became too much, and he did press his palm over his spark chamber, relaxing at the feeling of warmth that was gradually becoming more familiar to him.

When he did that, Fowler finally made his move: he smiled.

“Congratulations,” he said. “I suppose, anyway. Was it planned?”

“Primus, no,” Ratchet said, withdrawing his hand. The mark it left wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, and would wash off with a quick rinse. “They rarely are, they happen so infrequently. Just my luck my spark would wait until now to make a chip.”

Fowler nodded along. Ratchet was sure all of this information would make it into a report, which would mean Fowler’s people would soon be aware of yet another new Cybertronian on their planet, but that would’ve had to happen eventually. A bitlet wouldn’t allow itself to be kept secret for long.

“Didn’t think so,” Fowler said. “You’ll need to keep us updated on the situation, of course. Due date, resources, security measures. A missile silo could probably go in top eight strangest places I’ve baby-proofed, but we’ll help where we can.”

Ratchet hadn’t thought about that. Before his coding could go into a panic spiral, though, Fowler leaned forward with his elbows on the rail, a more relaxed position than Ratchet was used to seeing him in.

“I do mean it. Congratulations,” he said. “Is there another parent?”

Ratchet could have scoffed at such a ridiculous question, but he held it back.

“Of course.”

“Optimus, right?”

“Of—of course.” That one caught Ratchet more off-guard. What kind of question was that? There was no one else Ratchet had ever trusted near enough to his spark to chip it, no one he would be willing to raise a new life with anywhere, let alone on a hostile world.

“Sorry,” Fowler said, still casual. “I just had a theory, wasn’t sure.”

“We’re bonded,” Ratchet said, gesturing to his spark again, still not sure how there could have been any confusion.

Fowler just raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a part of me.” One of the most important parts. They had been together so long now, Ratchet could hardly remember who he was without Optimus’ being nestled within his own. He got that humans didn’t possess the anatomy to create their own bonds, but for once he struggled to find the words that would bridge the gap between their species.

He was grateful, then, when Fowler finally nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I might need you to explain more later, but I get it. He’s your person, right?”

Ratchet considered it for a moment, not wanting Optimus’ importance to him to be lost due to miscommunication.

“He—he gives me more than purpose in life,” he said. “And I do the same for him.”

And Fowler nodded, and somehow Ratchet wasn’t surprised that that was the thing to get through.

“Compared to what I’m used to, you’re both pretty subtle,” Fowler said. “That common among Cybertronians?”

Ratchet wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. His and Optimus’ mannerisms were different from how bonded couples had acted before the war, but so was almost everything about the way they acted. Given how few of their kind were left, it might not be that statistically inaccurate to say they were the norm.

“We’re officers,” he said instead. “We need to present a professional relationship when we’re working.”

“And these days, you’re never not working, right?”

They had their private moments, but Fowler’s assessment was accurate enough. Ratchet nodded.

“Well, I happen to know what to look for; gotta keep my eye out for fraternization and all,” Fowler said, “but the kids won’t. Assuming you didn’t tell _them_ before you reported to your _official contact_ ,” a conspiratorial smirk, “you should let them know Optimus is part of the deal. They’ll make up all their own theories otherwise.”

“Ah.” Ratchet thought back to some of the conversations he’d had with the children, the evasive questions that always seemed to skirt just beyond the edge of what they really wanted to know. It made more sense when considering the fact that humans couldn’t innately recognize a bonded pair, something that was so standard for Cybertronian relationships, Ratchet hadn’t even considered it an issue.

“We’ll be sure to let them know,” he said. “Thank you, Agent Fowler. Anything else?”

“No, that should do it,” Fowler said, straightening up and adjusting his jacket. “I’ll be back later this week to get the details for that report. Send Optimus my congratulations, okay?”

Ratchet hummed his agreement, turning his attention back to the generator as Fowler showed himself out.

When the team flew out from the groundbridge next, Ratchet didn’t hesitate: as soon as Optimus was back in root mode, he reached out, intertwining their fingers.

“Ratchet?” Optimus seemed bemused by the sudden affection. Ratchet hadn’t been untruthful when he’d said they tried to maintain professional demeanors around the team, but they didn’t have strict rules about displaying their feelings for each other.

“Agent Fowler stopped by,” Ratchet said. “We talked. It… wasn’t unpleasant.”

“Oh?”

Ratchet grinned. Just a little. He was trying to say something, not make a spectacle of himself.

“I realized I don’t tell you enough that I’m glad to be doing this, and I’m glad it’s with you,” Ratchet said. “I love you.”

Optimus’ optics sparkled; they _shone_. He pulled on Ratchet’s hands until he could wrap his arms around him, chest to chest, a loving embrace that Ratchet sank into with gratitude.

“I love you, dear old friend,” Optimus murmured to his helm, and Ratchet’s spark lit with such warmth he wondered if the others might see the glow through his plating.

A sharp squeal, followed by desperate shushing, was what it took to remind Ratchet that a world still existed beyond Optimus’ arms.

“I knew it, I _told_ you!” Miko cheered.

“Yeah, yeah, you were right,” Jack said.

Ratchet risked peering around Optimus. All three children had vacated their respective partners to inch forward, though Miko was the only one who had decided to forgo formality and openly stare at the exchange. Jack and Raf were trying to be more discreet about it, but Ratchet could still see their curiosity plain as day.

He withdrew from the embrace, with just a glance at Optimus as a promise along their bond that there would be more later.

“You were speculating?” he asked, with no hostility. It didn’t surprise him. All three were curious little things; it was how they’d ended up here in the first place. And since Ratchet hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with this piece of information, it made sense that they had been tempted to sleuth it out themselves.

“Miko was,” Jack said, sticking a thumb in her direction. “We just… went along with it.” He shrugged, and Ratchet almost rolled his eyes at his own softness he felt watching the gesture.

“Sure,” he said. “Dare I ask who else was in the running?”

The children glanced back at their guardians. Actually, Ratchet decided, he dared not ask. It wasn’t like there were that many options among them, and he doubted they would go so far as to suspect him of shacking up with Starscream or the like.

“Never mind,” he said, drawing their attention back. “Yes, you’re right, it’s Optimus. We’re sparkbonded, have been since early in the war.” He turned Optimus around and wrapped an arm around his waist. “I love him.”

And now Optimus’ spark sang with joy. Ratchet might have to get back in the habit of saying that more often.

“That’s so cute!” Miko said. “Aw, I didn’t know you guys could get robot married. Although, we didn’t know you could get robot pregnant either. Do you have robot in-laws?”

Ratchet entertained the children’s questions for a time (Raf had some especially astute ponderings regarding how a sparkbond functioned) before Optimus, recognizing his mounting fatigue, excused them both. The others would see to storing their fresh energon. He and Ratchet retreated to their shared hab, where immediately they pulled each other into a kiss: light, affectionate, familiar.

”Is everything alright?” Optimus asked quietly. Their optics were powered down, and Ratchet focused on strong fingers stroking his helm.

”Don’t know if that’s a question worth asking,” he said, because most of the time he didn’t know how to answer it. “I have you. Right now, as long as I’ve got that, I’m okay.”

”Then I’ll stay,” Optimus promised. They wrapped their arms around each other again, keeping close, and for a moment Ratchet’s spark let itself float in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might come back to polish this up later. Had to write the last few lines on my phone, and the way it jumped around on the screen was just Too Much.
> 
> Can you tell I felt bad about embarrassing Ratchet last chapter? Haha, he’s grumpy but this isn’t going to be a completely miserable experience for him. Reassurance from his favorite bot is definitely a plus 👍


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick heads up: this chapter is about Ratchet explaining sparkbonds to Bulkhead and Miko. The conversation is consensual and focuses on the mechanics of sparks and reproduction, and after looking over it a couple times I feel like they stick to appropriate boundaries. I headcanon Miko as being 14 or 15, so she's already been through human sex ed and is comfortable talking about it in an educational environment, which is what Ratchet is trying to construct.
> 
> That said, I'm not an expert in this and if it comes across as inappropriate, I will be happy to take the chapter down and revise it.

“So, wait, you can read each other’s minds?”

This wasn’t Bulkhead’s area of expertise.

“Well, no,” he said, scratching the back of his helm. “The connection doesn’t go all the way to the processor, just the spark.”

“But you can hear each other’s thoughts?”

“It’s more like feelings.” The romance novels described it with flowery things like ‘ _the weight of their souls pressed in warm aluminum,_ ’ but he didn’t need the others to know he read that junk. “Like, happiness, sadness, that kind of thing.”

“Can you send secret messages over a sparkbond?”

“I guess?” He’d been the heavy metal for a spec ops mission once, and the way Mirage and Hound knew each other’s location like a sixth sense seemed to imply something to that extent.

“So cool!” Miko said. “Have you ever had a sparkbond?”

Bulkhead was so grateful humans lacked infrared vision and couldn’t see the way his face heated up.

“No,” he said. “Sparkbonds are, um, special. And permanent. Not the kind of thing for someone like me.”

“Like you?”

“You know.” He waved his hand at himself. A laborer in one life, a Wrecker in the next. Not someone designed for domesticity.

Miko stared up at him, eyes wide. Bulkhead’s processor could never settle on how old it understood her to be: he knew objectively she was about halfway to adulthood, but her size and straightforward curiosity often created the illusion of being a sparkling herself. The kind of thing you wanted to protect from some of the uglier parts of the world, even those you considered yourself a part of.

“It’s a commitment,” he said instead of his actual thoughts, “too much for me. Plus, I like to keep my spark safe where it is, no need to go popping it out of my chest.”

“You’re doing _what_ with your spark?”

Bulkhead cringed. Miko might not be able to see his blush, but Ratchet could.

“Nothing, Ratchet,” he said, tapping his chest to emphasize how secure it was. “Miko was just asking about sparkbonds.”

Ratchet stepped into the command hub. He’d been in the back, where he spent most of his time lately, and Bulkhead had assumed he and Miko would be alone while they kept an eye on things. It was the only reason he hadn’t clammed up again when the topic of sparks had come up, springing up in what had otherwise been a standard Miko ramble. Not that he was embarrassed about their conversation, or felt it was inappropriate, but it was the kind of topic that was better shared with a trusted source. He thought Miko trusted Ratchet, but he didn’t know exactly how close the two were.

Miko, for her part, seemed almost giddy from the interruption.

“Is it true you and Optimus can remote control each other?” she asked. “Is that how you’re good at fighting sometimes?”

“What?” Ratchet rounded on Bulkhead, possibly offended. “Is _that_ what you’ve been teaching her?”

“No!” Bulkhead waved his hands in front of him. Slaggit, this was the other reason he’d been grateful to be alone: his understanding of sparks and bonds was less than perfect, and anything he got wrong or explained poorly would be immediate grounds for Ratchet to correct him. He turned to Miko, hoping he could avoid the fallout if he could show that he at least knew what he was talking about. “It’s a _suggestion_. You spend that much time living side by side with someone else’s spark, and their opinions are going to rub off on you, make you do things you wouldn’t do otherwise. It’s not direct control.”

He looked back to Ratchet, but instead of the understanding or approval he’d hoped for, he saw shock and something not unlike horror.

“That’s not—” he stuttered. “Bulkhead, where did you learn that?”

_Don’t mention the holo novels, don’t mention the holo novels—_

“Just figured.” He shrugged.

“Okay,” Ratchet breathed as he set down whatever he’d carried in with him. “Alright. You did complete a standard course on spark functionality, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.” It had been millions of years ago, now, but those memories still stuck out in his mind by virtue of being among his first. Sure, he’d been easily distracted at the time (everything from the walls of the classroom to the other newsparks had been so new and fascinating) but he’d plugged the basics into his core memory storage as he’d been instructed. That had sufficed well enough to keep him alive since.

“And what did they teach you about sparkbonds?” Ratchet asked.

Bulkhead shrugged again.

“Not a lot,” he admitted. “I was in a lower caste cohort. The expectation was that we would be working so much, we wouldn’t have time for it.” Saying the words did elicit a slight rumble in his engine, old hurts that he’d learned to live with by simply not acknowledging them. Miko looked at him again, and he smiled at her, okay again, not wanting to disillusion her about the cause he fought for. Whatever their old world had been like, he believed in Optimus Prime now, and he didn’t want her questioning that yet.

Ratchet, though, apparently had no such qualms.

“The _slaggers_ ,” he snarled.

“Who?” Miko asked, but Ratchet didn’t hear.

“Bulkhead, get over here,” he said. “We’re having a lesson.”

His spark shrunk in mortification.

“A—”

“I don’t care if the four of us end up the last Autobots left in the universe, this is something you need to know,” Ratchet said. “Bad enough Bumblebee still needs to ask me where the cap for his oil tank is, but not knowing how your own spark works? Unacceptable. Here, now.” And he pointed to his medbay.

“Can I come?” Miko asked.

Ratchet finally did seem to remember she was there, looking down at her. Bulkhead noticed the way his plating relaxed slightly at the sight of the tiny human.

“You’re welcome to sit in if you’d like,” he said. “Since this is for Bulkhead’s benefit, I’m going to be focusing on the mechanical properties of a sparkbond.” Bulkhead hadn’t known Rachet was _capable_ of such a careful tone. “You may interrupt or leave at any time, for any reason.”

And he was pretty sure Miko caught it, too, because she responded with twice the enthusiasm.

“No _way!_ ” she said, hopping forward. “I want to know! If one bot dies, can the other one bring them back to life?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Ratchet said, turning and leading her back to the medbay. “But the consequences aren’t so dire as what certain movies might have you believe.” He glanced back up. "Bulkhead, are you coming? You may say no, too, but you're the one who would actually benefit from this."

He hesitated, but only for a second. He'd gotten by just fine up until now without this information, and suspected he could continue as such for some time. Ratchet was right, though, that he ought to know how his own frame worked, and Miko was intrigued enough that he might have gone along just for her sake.

He nodded, slowly, and followed them.

They got Miko situated on the medberth while Bulkjack leaned against it. Ratchet tapped a few buttons on his console, and a rarely used screen flickered on from the wall, still open to the last set of tests Ratchet had been using it for. He cleared the results and opened a new program, an open board on which he started sketching a basic diagram of a spark.

This part, Bulkhead knew, but Miko was interested, so he didn’t interrupt while Ratchet went through the parts of a spark and how they worked. Photonic crystal core, metallic shell, and the various integrating mechanisms, all things he understood. The fact that the crystal spun continuously throughout a Cybertronian’s life was some news to him, but he tried not to let his surprise show. He didn’t want Ratchet to get the impression he knew even less than he’d claimed.

Once the form of the spark was covered, they moved on to its function.

“And unlike what Bulkhead was leading you to believe, the spark casing is stationary within the frame,” Ratchet said. “One isn’t required to eject their most vital organ to bond.”

“In my defense, I don’t see how else they can get to each other,” Bulkhead said. “Even when I open my panels, mine’s still a meter down.”

“Your chest just opens up?” Miko asked. “Like in _Alien_?”

“The mechanisms used to open the chest compartment are unique for each frametype,” Ratchet said. “And each holds its spark at different depths. But, and this is important, it doesn’t make a difference, because if you get to the point your crystals are touching, you’ve done something _very wrong_.” He tapped the squiggly line he’d drawn around his central diagram. “Sparkbonds are an enhancement of the EMF fields. The waves generated by our fields are actually quite powerful, but most of the time they’re dampened by casing and armor. When two sparks are exposed to each other, they develop an enhanced awareness of the other’s unique frequency, and enter a state of heightened empathy. It’s not mind control,” he finished, with a pointed look at each of them in turn.

Bulkhead nodded. He’d been embarrassed at first, drawing Ratchet’s attention like this, and one would never believe Ratchet existed in a ‘state of heightened empathy’ given the way he so pointedly judged those who knew less than he did. But, Bulkhead was finding that he appreciated the explanation. Though he still doubted it was something he would ever have to contend with, it was nice to have this bit of mystery cleared up finally.

“But, if it’s just a couple crystals rocking out together, how do you actually get a tiny spark?” Miko asked.

Right. Of course, it would come back to that. Ratchet seemed to be thinking the same thing, as his hand wandered up to his chest a moment before he answered.

“Two sparks need to be slightly synchopated to form a bond. Too similar, and it won’t stick; too different, and they risk damaging each other. The sweet spot allows a bond to form, and also creates the possibility that one or the other could splinter at its core.”

Bulkhead tried not to wince, but Ratchet caught it.

“It’s tiny,” he assured, “just a few microns wide, too small for the carrier spark to even feel. The splinter, once fully disconnected from the main spark, moves outward, gathering charge as it goes and developing its identity. Once it’s free of its parent, it travels down to the forge, a pool of _sentio metallico_ where it begins constructing its protoform.”

Miko’s eyes were impossibly wide, like she was trying to make room to take in all the information.

“And that’s what yours is doing?” she asked.

“Precisely.”

“Which part?”

“Excuse me?”

Miko pointed at Ratchet’s chest, the place where his hand still rested.

“Is it still in your spark?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ratchet said, dropping his hand. “It’s nearly free now, though.”

He smiled, the tiny one he wore a lot lately. It contrasted so much with the expression he used to adopt when he would get lost in his thoughts, and Bulkhead couldn’t help but appreciate it. Sensing that they’d already taken up enough of Ratchet’s time, he offered Miko his hand, gathering her up as he stepped away from the medberth.

“Well, we should get going,” he said. “My patrol starts in a few minutes, and there’s a Speaking Mouths concert on the radio that we wanted to catch.”

“Oh, yeah!” Miko said, attention stolen immediately.

“Thanks, Ratch,” Bulkhead said.

“Not a problem,” Ratchet said, “thanks for sitting through my lecture. And…”

Bulkhead stopped, turning back to watch Ratchet as he considered his next words.

“I’ve never had to explain any of this to anyone before. It’s never been my job, but it will be soon,” he said. “If you have any other questions, anything you wish someone had told you when you were young, consider letting me know? I want… I don’t want them to feel like anything has to be a mystery.”

Ratchet’s expression was less fond, more mildly worried. He shifted his weight like he wasn’t sure how to fit into his frame at that moment. And yet, Bulkhead got the feeling that the actual emotions weren’t all that different.

“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ll let you know.” If this was how Ratchet wanted support, Bulkhead would be happy to provide it. And maybe a few words on better ways to get the conversation started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In fun news: I did what I said I wouldn't and wrote an outline for this fic ^^' (instead of actually writing the chapter, which is why this one's out so late, whoops-) Basically still the same plan-wise, but now with a touch of plot, and also I don't have to scramble to think of a new scenario each week.


	7. Chapter 7

Ratchet hadn’t left base much to begin with, for a number of reasons: Decepticons would jump at the chance to take out the Autobots’ last medic, and there were always projects back at base that needed his attention. He was going out even less now, though. Not because his state had made him any more fragile, but because every time Optimus was out, Ratchet felt a compulsion to follow and keep him safe, and they all agreed it would be for the best to minimize his ability to go through with it.

So, he stayed inside most of the time, updating their maps and fixing equipment and running the medbay, until either the routine or the space would get to be too much for him. And then, with Optimus’ permission, he would venture up here to the roof.

Strategically, it wasn’t the best position. The groundbridge could have taken him anywhere else, particularly locations that wouldn’t reveal the coordinates of their base should a Decepticon happen to catch sight of him. There was even the risk an overly curious human might spot him; when his goal was to see the stars, it didn’t do to be stuck in his alt mode the whole time. The whole thing was a compromise. Easily forgotten against the stronger effects of Ratchet’s code, Optimus, too, was worried about the carrier of his sparkling, and didn’t like the idea of Ratchet going too far away without backup. If he wanted to be alone, then Optimus preferred it be somewhere Bulkhead or Arcee would have an easy time getting to in case of emergency.

The roof wasn’t perfect. But it got him away from his work for a while, and apparently that was something he was supposed to be doing more of. Hard to do, when it seemed like every waking moment was tied up in his job, but he could snatch a few minutes here and there to… sit. Stare at the stars.

He hadn’t actually tried to _relax_ in some fifty odd thousand years, and he was finding the exercise lacking.

He’d brought a cube of energon up with him and sipped at it, waiting for the part where he started to feel at peace and comfortable with himself. Was it the stars themselves that did it? He’d tried listening to music earlier, but Earth’s selections were nothing like what he was used to, and he’d found himself trying too hard to make sense of what he was hearing. A very long time ago, he’d emjoyed reading, but whatever novels they had were tucked away somewhere among their few remaining personal possessions, and if he went looking for them now he would end up spending on hour sitting on the floor, looking through his old things and reminiscing. And then Optimus would come in and ask what he was doing, and he would have to find some way to make it seem like he hadn’t just been staring fondly at a box of junk during his off hour.

He stayed on the roof. He stared at the stars. He charted a few constellations. He tried to dig up some old audio tracks from his memory files, but those were buried, too.

He was just starting to think this might be a waste of time when he felt the tug.

It wasn’t a physical feeling, which was good, because it was centralized in his spark, and generally a pulling sensation there would indicate—

He felt it again, like someone was tapping his shoulder. He brought his hand up, hovering for a moment before tapping back.

There. Not a tap. More like a question, natural curiosity. He glanced down, saw only his own plating, and yet could not find it in himself to look away.

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m here.”

The sparkling pulsed again, a single burst of emotion like a primitive form of what Ratchet and Optimus would send each other. Like a simple switch, the sparkling at this stage was only capable of _feeling_ and _not feeling_ , but with that one emotion it captured the questions it would eventually spend its life trying to answer: _What is this? Who am I? Where do I fit?_

That was how Ratchet interpreted it, anyway. It pulsed again, a gentle fizz he felt somewhere within the layers of his own emotions.

“I’m Ratchet. I’m yours, forever.”

His sparkling continued to pulse at him, and Ratchet thought his spark might burn out from joy. Every time it reached out, he spoke to it, encouraging it as it worked toward the understanding that they were two separate beings. A new identity taking shape inside his chassis! Was he qualified to be witness to this much self-awareness?

It didn’t matter, the same way he was able to ignore the fact that, without a body, his sparkling couldn’t hear anything he told it, the promises he made. He found himself falling into the same behaviors that he had once criticized in carrying bots, because dammit, he _was_ carrying, and he would never let his bitlet doubt for a moment how fiercely they were loved.

“Never thought you would happen, but I’m glad you did, kid.”

The feeling brightened and then dimmed, the tiny spark likely exhausted. Ratchet stopped tapping but continued murmuring, his words devolving into barely thought out promises about what their life was going to be like. Safe, loved, free. Those things that he hadn’t been able to guarantee to anyone since the war started, he would find a way to impart on his sparkling. He was faintly surprised by the strength of his conviction in this, not used to old luxuries like _hope_ , but he settled into it all the same.

He leaned back to continue his earlier activity, optics on the stars, aware now of the quiet presence beside his spark. Further down, his bond with Optimus was pulsing with curiosity, and he sent back his bevy of emotions, Optimus’ quiet joy slipping back in return. Something like this, they didn’t need words to explain. Later, he would find an opportunity to introduce the two, but for now, he relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet this week! Thank you for all the nice comments, you're all really kind :)


	8. Chapter 8

Arcee had a strong grasp on the duty roster and emergency codes, which meant her summons to the base’s center could have been due to one of two things: either the Decepticons were already inside and holding her team captive, making this the most poorly executed hostage situation in the history of their war, or Ratchet was acting up again.

Her battle programing was almost disappointed when she reached the groundbridge to find Optimus and Ratchet, alone, the latter tapping his pede with his arms crossed in front of him.

She didn’t let it slow her down, though, striding into the room with the same collected confidence that she had allowed to carry her into countless hostile situations. Ratchet looked tense enough that the locks holding down his spring-loaded scalpels seemed like they might release at any moment, and she knew after countless stints in his surgery that they ignored petty arguments like ‘warframe grade steel.’

“Optimus,” she greeted, with a nod to Ratchet as well. Maintain composure and professionalism.

“Arcee,” Optimus returned, “thank you for arriving on short notice. I apologize for cutting into your scheduled off shift, but the others and myself are already assigned.”

“What do you need?” she asked, letting herself relax into a more familiar stance. It was one thing to be called by the Prime for official reasons, but when it was Optimus asking a favor, she found it better to reciprocate a friendly attitude.

“Ratchet’s been feeling restless,” Optimus said, to which the medic immediately cut in.

“My frame is at the stage where it’s demanding more energon without providing an outlet. I’m generating power well above the normal rate, but since construction hasn’t begun yet, there is nowhere for that energy to go.”

“Is that dangerous?” Arcee asked, flicking on her infra. Ratchet did register at a higher temperature than Optimus, though not to a level that she would normally find concerning.

“No,” Ratchet snapped. “Just uncomfortable. Makes me irritable.” By the blank look on Optimus’ face, they weren’t going to say anything about that. Fine, Arcee could play. Ratchet had so far managed to maintain a level head and active work ethic through his carriage, but if this were the moment things started to go sideways, she would find a way to make it work.

“He would like to go for a drive,” Optimus said. “I cannot accompany him at the moment, so I was wondering if you would be willing to act as an escort.”

Arcee studied Optimus for a moment, then looked to Ratchet.

“Is that what you want?” she asked.

He huffed, then, realizing she was looking for a real answer, shrugged. Very helpful.

“It’s what the sparkling wants,” he said.

It still felt like she was doing this against his will, but she was familiar enough with Ratchet to know that was the closest to an affirmative she was going to get. She nodded and straightened, sliding straight from the role of friend to bodyguard.

“Of course,” she said. “Ratchet, whenever you’re ready.”

There was a spark of surprise in his field and optics, but he dropped his arms and marched over to the groundbridge console, muttering about having been ready for hours already. Arcee stepped closer to Optimus, keeping her attention on the engineer as he put in a set of coordinates it seemed he’d already had prepared.

“How is he doing?” she asked.

“He’s alright,” Optimus said. “The sparkling puts a strain on him, and we’re still working on how to balance this new responsibility on top of his old ones. But so far, he’s happy.” He leaned close in her space: not touching, but near enough to be familiar. “I’m sorry to have to ask this of you. I know you disapprove, but it’s his decision and he needs support. The whole team’s, if he can get it.”

There was a hint of chastisement in his voice, and Arcee cringed.

“I don’t disapprove,” she said. “Whatever he needs from me, he has.”

Optimus hummed.

“I’m sure,” he said, “but I don’t know if he’s aware.”

The message was clear. Without looking up at Optimus, Arcee nodded, and after a moment his presence backed off. It was perfect timing, as the ground bridge came on and Ratchet stepped back, motioning to Arcee.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Well, someone’s in a hurry,” she said, striding forward before folding down into her alt mode.

“Just not used to being the fast one,” Ratchet rebuffed, transforming himself and taking the lead. With a quick flash of her side mirrors to bid goodbye to Optimus, Arcee followed, keeping close to the ambulance’s cab.

“The fast one, huh? You looking for a race?” Racing had never been much Arcee’s passion, her alt modes tending more toward quick sprints than endurance, but she liked to believe she could hold her own, even faced against whatever carrying energy Ratchet was hopped up on at the moment.

“You’ll see,” Ratchet said.

They jumped through the other end of the groundbridge moments later, landing in their alt modes before rolling to a stop. Arcee quickly scanned their surroundings for humans and, finding none, transformed back to root mode to give the area a more careful sweep.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll bite. Where are we?”

The ground here was flat. Acid Wastes flat. _Metroplex’s footprint_ flat. And it stretched for miles around them, a wide-open space of nothing but dry, tan soil and an overworked sun above them.

“Would you believe me if I told you this is still Nevada?” Ratchet asked.

“What?” Arcee looked around, as though Jasper might grow out from the ground at any moment. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” Ratchet said. “Welcome to the Black Rock Desert.”

After their crash landing, Ratchet had held a briefing to warn them about the high level of water present on this planet, a catalyst for rust infections. He had stressed that the liquid molecules could be found _everywhere_ : in the soil, the air, in its own massive bodies. Given how prevalent the stuff was supposed to be, Arcee was struggling to understand how a patch of Earth this size could be so _dry_.

“Any abandoned silos out here looking for tenants?” she asked. It would be nice to forgo anti-rust regimes for a while.

“If it’s out here, you’ll see it,” Ratchet promised. And then his engine gunned, dust spraying out from his wheels, and was off. Arcee transformed and moments later was by his side, just two vehicles in an excess of empty.

Driving across the plaia was a new experience for Arcee. She had been on dusty roads before and was familiar with the feeling of grit gradually working into her seams, but normally that came with bumps and imperfections. Out here, movement was free and easy. Boring, almost, but Ratchet’s main concern seemed to be going fast, and Arcee couldn’t deny the thrill of pushing her engine to its limit. When they needed a break, they would slow down, twist through complicated loops and turns leaving tracks of unreadable calligraphy, and then as soon as Ratchet recovered it was back to straight lines and long bends as they tore across the landscape.

It didn’t leave much room for conversation, which Arcee thought was fine, but apparently Ratchet thought otherwise.

“Arcee?” he said as they slowed down again and he turned them toward a patch of ground they hadn’t marked up yet.

“All clear?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “systems running normally. I just wanted to thank you.”

“That’s alright, Ratchet,” Arcee said. “You’re an important member of the team. Keeping you safe is part of the job.” That, and making sure Optimus didn’t spend too much time fretting over his bonded.

“Not for that,” he said, “though don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. Another day cooped up and I might’ve started making trouble just to give Optimus an excuse to get rid of me for a few hours. Not sure what that says about the sparkling.”

Arcee hummed.

“I just wanted to say, I understand that this isn’t an ideal situation, getting myself sparked,” Ratchet went on. “You’re not happy with me.”

Arcee slowed down and braked. She waited until Ratchet had also stopped moving and transformed, waiting for him to take the cue so they could face each other.

“I understand why,” Ratchet said once he was on two pedes again.

Arcee scraped at the dusty plaia.

“Do you?” she asked.

“It’s irresponsible,” Ratchet said, “short-sighted. It’s another responsibility to take on while our team is already stretched thin. It’s going to compromise our priorities, especially in regards to the sacrifices we’re willing to make to end the war. And… I know it might not be the kind of thing you care about, but it’s wrong for a Cybertronian to come into being this far from our home.”

He was right about that last point: Arcee wasn’t spiritual, and she did not see a difference between a sparkling forged on one planet or another. But the rest was spot-on.

“And?”

Ratchet tipped his helm.

“What, do you want me to add selfish? Because I won’t.”

He said it like he didn’t care, but Arcee didn’t miss the way he tensed.

“No,” she said, stepping closer, “not for this.” Ratchet absolutely had the capability to make selfish decisions, but weighed against everything he had given up, it hardly made a dent in her impression of the mech. “Just tell me you have a plan.”

“I already did,” Ratchet said. “Tried to, anyway.”

“Right. Tell me again now that I’m not distracted thinking about all the ways Megatron could use it against us.” She could admit that her reaction to the news could have been better, as well as the way she handled it over the following weeks and days, trying to ignore it while unable to stop thinking about it. Sparklings were small, fragile, and terribly accident-prone. She already had enough trouble keeping the adult members of her team alive: trying to factor in a creature that had to be looked after constantly had sent her into a spiral of concern that manifested as a bad attitude and implied hostility toward anything that had yet to learn its own name.

She didn’t know enough about sparklings to have an opinion on them, but this bitlet was a part of her family. Caring about it came as second nature.

Ratchet smiled, and she got the sense she was understood.

“We have a plan,” he promised. “Most of one. We’ll keep you updated on it, alright?”

“You better,” she said. “I need to know my responsibilies.”

Ratchet’s lights flickered.

“You want some?” he asked.

“I’m going to end up with them no matter what,” Arcee said, gesturing to point out the reason they were out here in the first place. “At least give me some warning.”

Ratchet nodded.

“Keep that in mind,” he vowed.

“I know,” Arcee said. “So, enough standing here. Still got some fuel to burn?”

Ratchet said yes, and they were on the move again soon, a straight shot through the desert that should have lasted another mile or two at least. After a few hundred feet, though, Ratchet stopped again, and he transformed in such a rush he almost tripped over the landing.

“Ratchet, what’s wrong?” Arcee demanded, transforming and spinning back to him. A quick scan revealed no major injuries, but that didn’t make her feel any better when she saw the way his gaze stuck to his chest.

“I—no, nothing’s wrong,” he said. “It’s just, the bitlet—” His vocalizer cut off and he didn’t seem to notice, optics still drawn into a look of wonder.

“Is it okay?” Arcee asked.

Ratchet blinked and shook his head, looking up at her, though the expression was still there.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I think they just decided on their alt mode.”

Arcee’s spark flared with unexpected heat.

“What’s it going to be?” she asked, forgetting that there were once traditions for who would find out the alt mode first.

Ratchet did, too.

“An armored truck,” Ratchet said, a look of pure delight that shifted into a groan as he looked back down at his chest. “You are going to be nothing but trouble, are you?”

Arcee laughed, not unkindly.

“They’ll fit in,” she predicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet was hoping for a little bitty, like a microscope or a scooter. Much less to worry about if you can just buckle them up in your cab.


	9. Chapter 9

Ratchet kept the groundbridge open just long enough to see Makeshift go sailing through. The portal snapped shut as soon as the shapeshifter was gone, the sparks that flew off the console nothing compared to the relief Ratchet felt at being secure in their home once again.

Assuming, of course, they had ended up with the right one.

His scalpels were out and to the bot’s throat before Bulkhead’s first cheer had ended. Wheeljack—or Makeshift—froze, familiar enough with all the ways a Cybertronian could be hurt to know a blade through a central fuel line did not tend to lead toward favorable outcomes.

“Well?” Ratchet said. “Which one are you?”

“The real one,” Wheeljack said. His tone implied far more boredom than his rigid posture suggested. “If I were Makeshift, I would’ve killed me on the spot and burned the body so you couldn’t find any clues. Right, Bulkhead?”

“Yeah, that sounds like Jackie,” Bulkhead agreed, though the emphasis on ‘sounds like’ kept Ratchet’s scalpels unsheathed.

“We’re not taking any chances this time,” he said. “Arcee, escort ‘Wheeljack’ to the repair bay. I’ll do a deep dive into his systems and make sure he’s who he says he is.” The groundbridge was still acting up and there were countless more small projects he could have been devoting his time to, but the revelation that a hostile entity had been invited into their base had sent his coding into a fritz. Now, he literally could not relax until he was assured they were all safe again.

“Now hand on a second,” Wheeljack said, attempting to jerk away. Ratchet’s blade followed him, a warning beep from Bumblebee convincing him to still again. “Thanks for thinking of me, doc, but I don’t let just anyone into my base code. Not until the third date, at least.”

“Hey, hey, easy,” Bulkhead said, trying to step between them. “Jackie, Ratchet’s really not so bad. He’s just a little more cautious right now because of the sparkling, and—”

“The what?”

Bulkhead froze, arms still spread between them.

“ _Bulkhead_ ,” Ratchet snapped, with half a mind to turn his scalpels on a new target.

Bumblebee’s made a sound of equal parts commiseration and second-hand embarrassment as he subtly led the children away.

“Is that right? You sparked, doc?” Wheeljack asked, his expression shifting from hostile to something far more infuriating.

Ratchet might have tried to deny it, were it not for the way his teammates had already reacted. Bulkhead was the worst of the three, having already shrunk back and looking plainly regretful.

He sighed, though his scalpel stayed in place.

“Yes,” he said, “and now that you know, you understand you have no choice but to submit to a code check.” Primus knew what the Cons would do if one of their spies got word of something like this.

“Give me a pass if I promise to send a nice emergence gift?” Wheeljack asked, tilting his helm incrementally away from the edge of the blade.

“How about you let Arcee take you to the repair bay, without a fight, and I’ll consider letting you live that long?” He wished Optimus would get back here soon. The Prime was so good at getting his soldiers to listen to even the most distasteful commands, much better than Ratchet had ever been at wrangling wayward patients.

“Stickler, huh?” Wheeljack did not resist when Arcee pulled his wrists behind his back and marched him toward the repair bay, though his optics kept darting back to Ratchet. For such a small bot, Arcee was surprisingly good at the kind of thing. Bulkhead tagged along, field flitting between embarrassment over his slip-up and concern in making sure none of them tried to slag each other.

Wheeljack allowed himself to be led to the medical berth and hopped on without waiting for it to be lowered. When Ratchet stepped in front of him, he presented his arm with the medical port facing up, familiar enough with the standard checkups that the movements seemed to come naturally. When Ratchet reached to plug in, though, his arm pulled back.

“Hey, the kid’s not going to absorb any of my coding, is it?” he asked. “Don’t think I’m up for being a second sire. Not good at sharing or commitment.”

“That’s not how it works,” Ratchet said, darting forward to grab Wheeljack’s wrist and bring it closer. He ejected his cable into his free hand and plugged in, trying not to make a face as he felt the poor repair Wheeljack kept his ports in.

“Really? Could’ve sworn you needed two bots to make a bit.”

Ratchet ignored him, though the silence spent waiting for medical permissions to be granted was grating. Once Wheeljack’s systems let him in, he started skimming the code for landmarks, ignoring the emotional feedback he kept catching on the periphery. Just because he could feel Wheeljack’s amusement did not mean he had to acknowledge it.

“Does lead to the question of who sparked up the doc,” Wheeljack went on. “Bulk’s too nice. Arcee’s out of your league. Bumblebee?” Ratchet’s attempt to school his expression proved ineffective. “Nah, definitely not. The Prime, then?”

“We’re bonded,” Ratchet said, deeply frustrated when all his checks came back clean. He dug a little deeper than he normally would have, searching for any sign they had ended up with the wrong bot and would get to kick him out as thoroughly as they had his lookalike.

“Is that allowed?” Wheeljack asked, raising an orbital ridge at his guards as though to repeat the question. “Could’ve sworn the Autobot code said something about—”

“Oh, slag off, like you’ve actually read the damn thing,” Ratchet said as he terminated the connection and unplugged. Unless the Decepticons had added a master hacker to their ranks, in which case the war was essentially over, this was the real Wheeljack and Ratchet was stuck with him. It was far from the first time he had been assigned a difficult patient, but every time prior had been in the context of a field hospital, where a constant conveyor belt of injuries made it easy to take his mind off whichever bot had made it their mission to snip away at his patience.

“Section 69, Autobot medic shalt not—”

“Okay, Jackie, that’s enough.” Ratchet found himself separated from Wheeljack by the imposing wall that was Bulkhead. “Ratch is doing his best here.”

“He’s doing _something_ ,” Wheeljack agreed, and it was only the press of Arcee’s grip suddenly around his arm that kept Ratchet from throwing himself at the other bot.

“Okay, time to take a walk,” she said. “Bulkhead—”

“Yeah, I know.”

Ratchet tried to put up a fight, but Arcee was strong and her movements fluid. In what seemed like just a couple steps, she managed to maneuver them out of the medbay, leading Ratchet down one of the hallways that led away and then back to the center of the base.

“Alright?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ratchet said, trying to twist to see her. “You can let go now.”

She released him, coming to his side so they could walk together along the empty hall.

“From what I’ve heard, all the Wreckers are like that,” she said, and Ratchet nodded.

“Oh, yes. Do you remember what a fragger Bulkhead was when he first joined the team? I told Optimus more than once we needed to send him back.”

“What did he say?” Arcee asked. “Everyone deserves a chance to learn from their mistakes?”

“That we didn’t have enough fuel on hand to get Bulkhead all the way back to his last outpost.” Ratchet grinned faintly at the memory. It was always up in the air whether Optimus would take his advice. This had happened to be one instance where he was glad he had not. Not that he was holding his clutch for Wheeljack to make a similar turn around.

He felt a stirring against his spark. Right. There were more important things in his life than aftholes in the ranks.

“Come on,” he said. “We should recall Optimus and give him an update on the situation.”

It was late when Ratchet finished tinkering with the groundbridge. The damage from the scraplets had been more severe than he had initially realized, and the sound it made while powering on still wasn’t right, but there was only so much he could get done in a day. His systems had started to synthesize _sentio metallico_ for the sparkling’s oncoming construction, and it had started to drain on his own energy levels. He shut the maintenance panel and stretched, looking forward to his berth.

“Hey, doc.”

He startled, gun already drawn before he recognized the voice and moniker.

“ _Wheeljack_ ,” he blustered, “you can’t just—”

“Eesh, sorry.” The Wrecker was leaning back with his hands up in surrender. Ratchet fumbled as he put the gun away, of half a mind to keep it out to make a point. “Bulk said you’d be jumpy, didn’t think it’d be that bad.”

“Do you need something?” Ratchet asked, looking over Wheeljack’s frame. He hadn’t had a chance to give him a thorough checkup after the fight, but nothing in his scan had come up as urgent. Plating dented, paint scratched: who among them (besides Ratchet himself) didn’t have such marks lately?

“Yeah.” With the gun out of sight, Wheeljack relaxed. “Figured I should say sorry. Not my place to give you a hard time.”

Ratchet crossed his arms. The ground bridge was in standby, the children had gone home, and the other bots were dispersed to their duties or recharging: the silo was quieter than normal, and it made him feel more exposed.

“Bulkhead tell you to say that?” he asked.

Wheeljack shrugged.

“Kind of,” he said. “Bulk can’t _tell_ me what to do, but he can make some pretty convincing arguments.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Somebody that close to the Prime? Nah, probably not.” Despite his words, Wheeljack grinned, and Ratchet became certain he would never really understand the bot.

“Well, thanks,” Ratchet said, waving it off. He’d had enough spark to sparks with his own team. He didn’t need to start giving anyone the impression that carrying was making him soft.

He tried to leave, but Wheeljack sidestepped in front of him. Not blocking him entirely, and Ratchet had a feeling he would be allowed to leave if he pressed the issue, but clearly Wheeljack didn’t think they were done here.

“I just wanted to say, it’s a good thing you’re doing,” Wheeljack said. “It’s a lucky little bit.”

On instinct, Ratchet touched the plating over his spark chamber. It had been getting warmer over the past few days: the sparkling would be big enough to survive without a direct connection to his spark soon.

“And I know it’s not easy,” Wheeljack went on. “Especially not right now, but parenting’s hard as slag no matter what. I would know: my creators were pretty sure I came straight from the pit.”

That got Ratchet’s attention.

“ _You_ were a carried spark?” he asked. “I didn’t see that in any of your files.” The differences between sparks carried and forged in the Well were minimal, but substantial enough that it was usually noted somewhere.

“It’s not a badge I like to wear too much,” Wheeljack said. “Wreckers aren’t supposed to have connections to the outside. Plus, some bots can never see you for a full mech once they learn you used to be a sparkling.” He shrugged again, this time with a wry grin. “Doesn’t hurt my feelings, but it did get a lot easier to get into the big leagues once my commanding officers stopped asking if I needed help arming my stock.”

“Hmph. I’d half started to think you skipped the whole maze and blew your way straight to the surface.” The back of his processor was itching with questions, what worked and what didn’t and whether he was already making huge mistakes, but he was also still exhausted. Even if he managed to form his queries, he wasn’t sure his archives would successfully log anything Wheeljack said.

He must have been getting worse at hiding it, because Wheeljack stepped back, opening the way back to the habsuites.

“And if you don’t mind, I’d prefer if that’s the story we stick with,” he said. “But if you want to talk sometime, I’ll be around. Bulkhead convinced me: you out of commission and Decepticons prowling around, seems like you need me more here than whatever skirmish I can find on the next backwater planet.”

Earlier, Ratchet would have cringed at the knowledge that Wheeljack would be staying. But now, he nodded.

“Good,” he said. “In that case, you can take over patrol as soon as Bumblebee gets back.”

Wheeljack tilted his head.

“That payback for earlier?”

“No, that’s what it means to be part of the team.” Technically Wheeljack was correct: Ratchet didn’t have the authority to assign duty shifts, nor did they need another bot on patrol at that time. But if Wheeljack was going to stay (and Ratchet was praying his presence didn’t change too much around the base) then it didn’t hurt to assert himself early on. It was practice, he reasoned, as he waved and excused him to his berth.

Just like watching over a bunch of sparklings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say there would be a little plot! I'm not going to touch on every TFP episode; that would take forever, and also some of them are just directly counter to the vibe I'm going for. But yes, the characters no longer exist in a timeless void.


	10. Chapter 10

It was supposed to be a quick, easy mission, a chance for Ratchet to stretch his servos and do something useful for once. Check out the distress beacon, maybe add a few new members to their team.

“Out, out, out, we’re leaving _right now_.”

Of course, it wasn’t that simple.

“Ratchet—”

Ratchet got an arm around Optimus’ waist and tried to drag him away from the puddles of infected energon. It would have worked, had it not been for the incredibly frustrating height difference.

“I’m not letting you take _our bitlet_ onto a _plague ship_ ,” Ratchet said. He butted his shoulder against Optimus’ midsection and bent his knees.

“Ratchet, I'm not—”

With one fluid scooping motion, Ratchet straightened up, hoisting Optimus over his shoulder, marching back the way they’d come.

Optimus struggled for only a moment—mostly out of confusion at the sudden change of perspective—before he accepted his fate and allowed his dear bonded to carry him to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I got the idea in my head and couldn't get rid of it xD Real chapter's coming up in a couple minutes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this week, be sure to read chapter 10!

Ratchet cuddled closer to Optimus on the berth, a contented sigh escaping him, the likes of which would never transpire beyond the confines of their shared quarters. It was a rare event for the beginning of their off shifts to line up and he intended to make the most of it, shifting so that his helm was tucked under Optimus’ chin.

Optimus purred, a gentle sound that from here sounded like it was coming straight from his spark, as Ratchet nuzzled in, breathing in his scent. He stroked Ratchet’s shoulder, his arm, in smooth, gentle motions. At first, Ratchet pushed back into the touch, but as he became more relaxed he simply lay their and enjoyed it, his own thumb tracing circles over Optimus’ waist.

“We should recharge,” Optimus murmured.

“Not yet,” Ratchet said. “Don’t want to.”

Optimus made a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a hum and did not stop his motions. If he kept them up, there was a chance Ratchet actually might nod off, but he didn’t want to. Not when he could be enjoying the feeling of Optimus’ legs tangled with his own, his solid presence wrapped around Ratchet and keeping him safe.

Optimus’ hand started to drift, down his chest plates and over his abdomen, brushing the place where Ratchet’s armor had just started to press out. It was slight so far, a little ridge where his grill had started to move forward while the pelvic plating shifted down. The changes would become more obvious with time, but for now Ratchet was fairly confident they were the only two who had noticed. For such a slight change, it took over a surprising amount of their thoughts. He noticed the way Optimus glanced down whenever they encountered each other now, and he himself had taken what few opportunities he had to observe the minute change in his profile.

The moments when those two events would happen to overlap, Optimus would say something either incredibly wise or hideously romantic, and Ratchet would only get halfway to a sarcastic reply before he was caught up in a kiss or an embrace.

He kissed Optimus’ neck and let his optics flutter into standby. He was bonded to the biggest sap in the galaxy, and he couldn’t even pretend to have a problem with that.

“Have they told you anything else?” Optimus asked. Even hushed, his voice was a pleasant rumble against Ratchet’s cheek.

“Nothing concrete, not since separation,” he said. “All of their focus is on the construction process right now.” Truth be told, he missed the little presence next to his spark. They were a curious being, easily delighted and excited to respond even when there was no way they could have understood the stimulus. Despite trying to approach all of this from a medical perspective, Ratchet had found himself on more than one occasion explaining his work to the deaf, blind sparkling, talking with the simplest terms about the basics of his profession. Their pulses dulled as he spoke, only to brighten again as he completed a task or came to the end of an explanation, and he’d come to convince himself they were listening.

Optimus rubbed over his plating again and hummed.

“It still feels like a very long time before I’ll meet them,” he said.

“Not as long as you’d think,” Ratchet said, moving his hand to the small of Optimus’ back so he could pull them closer together. An armored truck would be a greater draw on his systems, but the design wasn’t that much more complicated than a standard vehicle. Though longer than he would have preferred, he had a feeling construction was going to pass faster than they expected.

“But I understand your impatience,” he added as an afterthought. “I’m also looking forward to it.” He knew it was ridiculous, to have already ascribed a personality to a being who could barely think for themself, but he thought they were charming, and he wanted to know whether the interest in medicine he’d ascribed to them would hold up once they were surrounded by a world of other things that might catch their interest. Whatever they wanted to do with their life, he would support, but he did occasionally catch himself fantasizing about a tiny apprentice with large optics and a curious mind.

Optimus hummed again, a happy sound, as his movements starting to slow.

“It will be worth the wait,” he said, not that Ratchet needed the assurance.

“I know,” he said. “We should recharge.”

“Hm. I suppose.” Optimus’ hand settled, a light weight over Ratchet’s forge. “Rest well, my love.”

Optimus’ engines powered down swiftly, his processor not far behind. Ratchet wasn’t surprised; the Prime constantly worked himself to the point of his exhaustion. He hadn’t been any better, not until his frame had started to demand he give it the proper rest, so he didn’t push the issue as hard as he would have. They were all doing their best.

With that thought, he prepared to follow his bonded into recharge. His engine powered down, and he set aside incomplete calculations to be finished in the morning. Everything was perfect: the base was quiet, he was secure in Optimus’ arms, and after a long duty shift, he was completely exhausted. On every level, he was ready for recharge.

Just one problem.

_Tap, tap._

The sensation came from deep within.

_Tap._

He rubbed his abdomen, just under Optimus’ hand, while pulsing calm feelings in his field. He’d first felt the bitlet move just a couple days before, and the sensation was still novel. Not uncomfortable, but very hard to ignore.

“Shh.” He rubbed what he hoped would be relaxing circles over his plating. So far, the sparkling’s bouts of activity had been brief, tapering off after moving around just a few times. Now, though, they kept up, almost like they were spurred on by Ratchet’s efforts.

“Ratchet?”

Well, slag.

“I’m alright, Optimus,” he said. “Bitlet’s up, though.”

“Oh?” His movements lethargic but sure, Optimus brushed over Ratchet’s forge again. “Shh, little one. Your carrier needs his rest.”

They responded with another flurry of movements, and Ratchet would have finally given into his annoyance had he not felt the way Optimus’ field pricked with interest and excitement. He lifted his head, careful not to disturb Ratchet’s place at the crook of his neck, and looked down at the spot their hands touched.

“Hush, sweet one,” he murmured. “We’ll have plenty of time to meet each other later.”

 _Tap, tap, tap,_ in response.

Ratchet was torn between the way his spark swelled with all the love he felt for his family and the reality that he needed to recharge. He reached around and pulled Optimus close again, grumbling into his plating.

“You have another fan,” he said. “Come here, just hold me. They’ll calm down on their own.”

“Very well,” Optimus said, his voice good natured. He did as he was told, wrapping his arms around Ratchet, and once more they held each other close, the persistent reminder of their future between them. Ratchet vented and prepared to settle in for however long it would take; there were worse ways to wait for recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff this week, I feel like we've all earned it ^^
> 
> EDIT 9/21: If you're here wondering where the next chapter is, real life got in the way and I wasn't able to finish it. It'll be up next week, same as usual.


	12. Chapter 12

The Key to Vector Sigma was heavier than Ratchet would have expected, and cooler to the touch. In his experience, Cybertronian artifacts tended to radiate a living warmth, akin to protomatter just after it had hardened. This felt inert. _Asleep_ , he reassured himself, though he continued to turn the object over in his hands.

Optimus had pressed it into his hands at the same moment as a parting kiss, and he had been so taken aback that he hadn’t registered what he’d been handed.

“Optimus,” he’d said as he’d held it up to the light, studied the way it shone, “this is…”

“A promise,” Optimus said, “that I will return.”

Ratchet lowered the Key and stared up at Optimus, plating held in. This was the part where he normally would have asked what foolish plan his Prime and bonded had come up with, but he knew he couldn’t this time. If the extent of Optimus’ peril were made explicit, there was a chance he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from following through the groundbridge. It was bad enough that a figure claiming to be Unicron had appeared, screaming in rage about his “avatar” having been “smelted,” but now they were trusting Soundwave to lead their team to the core of the planet and mollify the deity. Ratchet still wasn’t convinced they had understood him correctly and Soundwave hadn’t asked them outright to come walk into the Decepticons’ furnace.

“You will,” Ratchet said, hoping his tone sounded firmer than his conviction felt. “As your physician, I will require it.”

And Optimus had kept his word. To a point. Certainly, there could have been worse possibilities, but the wary look he received from the bot sitting on his examination table was not one he found overly encouraging.

“Optimus,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

“I suppose overwhelmed isn’t an appropriate answer?” Optimus asked. One hand tightened around the edge of the berth, though the moment the metal started to creak he flinched, pulling his hand into his lap as though afraid to touch anything.

“Quite understandable, actually,” Ratchet said as he set down the Key among his other tools and busied himself powering on his scanner. His fingers hovered over the screen while he waited for command prompts, keeping an unnecessary amount of processor load focused on where the next button would appear.

“Just be honest with me,” he went on. “I’ll best be able to help you if I know what you’re feeling, or what you _think_ you’re feeling. Even if it’s something you don’t understand.” He suspected that would encompass a great proportion of Optimus’ coming days, but framing it this way might help to reduce some of the anxiety.

“In that case, would you continue calling me Orion? It’s a small comfort.”

“Of course,” Ratchet said. “The others might trip over it, but I was calling you Orion long enough that it’s still familiar, even after so much time.”

The scanner finished its preparation and Ratchet passed it over Orion’s frame, passively watching the readings scroll by. He had done enough basic exams that he barely had to pay attention while running them: anything outside the norm would draw his attention, but otherwise his processor could drift. That, though, wasn’t the goal right now, and he focused on the numbers like he was trying to parse a Decepticon cipher.

“It is remarkable to me how old you’ve grown, Ratchet,” Orion said as he waited, looking around the medbay. Normally Ratchet would have barked at him to stay still, but now he was grateful for the way they slowed down the scan and gave him more time.

“You’re not young either, Orion, even if you don’t feel it,” Ratchet said. “Time is kinder to those who carry the Matrix, fortunately.”

“I didn’t say I’m young,” Orion said, causing Ratchet to laugh.

“I almost forgot what we were like back then,” he said. He pulled back as the scan completed and got to see the small smile on Orion’s face.

“You see, you say that and I have to assume you mean our youth,” he said. “What you refer to as ancient past still feels like the present to me.”

“You are our youth!” Ratchet countered. “Before you received the Matrix, we were so young, so naïve. We had no idea the paths our lives would take, despite being confident we’d already settled into our destinies.”

“We were always confident our fates would stay close, though. I’m glad we were right about that.”

Ratchet stroked his thumb across the screen, scrolling through pages of numbers without reading any of them.

“Me, too,” he said.

A hand brushed his own. He looked back up at Orion, then set aside the scanner, allowing himself to be pulled closer, not touching but not pushing Orion’s hands away either.

“There is a feeling in my spark,” he said, “and I cannot confirm what it is, because I have only read about it, never experienced it myself. Or, I don’t remember having done so. But it is what I imagined it would be like, so I hope you won’t find it too presumptuous when I ask: are we sparkbonded?”

“Yes,” Ratchet said, allowing his hands to wrap around Orion’s.

He’d been holding back on that revelation. Having bonded after the war began, he’d known there was little chance Orion would remember it, and he had agreed with the team it would be better to space out the surprises. He hadn’t even been sure how Orion would feel about it: they had never discussed when their feelings for each other had started to develop. For Ratchet, it had felt like they were always there and had just grown more insistent as the war went on and the stakes grew higher, but he had no idea at what point Orion had started to consider it.

He opened his side of the bond and let his love fill in the gap, trying to keep himself calm so as not to alarm Orion. His bonded’s optics grew bright and unfocused as his attention shifted inward, before with a surprised laugh he brought himself back to reality.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said. “Yes, I suppose that would be unmistakable.”

“It’s a treasure we’ve been fortunate to keep,” Ratchet said, twisting his hand around so they were holding each other. “Though we’ve been at risk of losing it more times than I can stand to count.”

“We’ve fought?” Orion asked, and Ratchet shook his head, pulling back.

“Yes, but usually over how you insist on doing slag like this.” He tapped the plating over Orion’s sparkchamber.

“I cannot speak for my past self, but I was successful in keeping you safe.”

“ _I’m_ not the only one you need to be thinking about,” Ratchet said, the words out before he could remind himself they were supposed to be spacing out the life changing news. Unable to think of a way to cover up his mistake, he went for the scanner again, saving and filing away the results with a greater degree of care than he had ever afforded the task before.

“The team?” Orion asked.

“Yourself.” It was almost what he’d meant, and anyway far more believable than the pseudo-reality he had been leaning toward. There was no way to simplify the news that they were having a sparkling and Ratchet’s processor was convinced Optimus was the carrier; that kind of emotional fallout needed time, which they did not have in great supply. Arcee and Bumblebee would be ready any moment. Orion needed to be ready to be their leader, without the stress of being a creator added to that.

“Despite your best efforts, you’re fine,” Ratchet said, shutting off the scanner before helping Orion off the exam table. He was the same oversized hunk of metal he had been for some time, but more pliant now: when Ratchet tugged, he allowed himself to be reeled in and almost seemed to delight in it the way young Cybertronians had once flocked to greet returning war heroes.

“Because of yours, I assume,” Orion said as Ratchet retrieved the Key and they walked back to the main room side by side. “It must be incredible luck, that we were able to form this partnership.”

“Maybe some of that. The high grade pulled its weight, too.” Not for the act itself, but Ratchet’s nervous, fumbling confession, followed my Optimus’ exuberant encouragement, could not have happened without a gentle push from an outside source. Though with this new perspective, he was starting to wonder if Optimus would have accepted anyway.

The main room seemed to buzz with an expectant tension. The humans were up and out of the way, but they stared conspicuously as Orion stepped into the room, to the point he seemed to grow shy under their scrutiny.

“Um. Hello,” he tried.

Miko tilted her head, pigtails bouncing, while Raf tried for an encouraging smile.

“It’s still weird to see Optimus all  
“?… not old,” Jack said.

“Don’t let it fool you,” Ratchet said.

“Ratchet was also just mentioning how young I am,” Orion said, earning an optic roll.

“It’s relative. Even when he was working as an archivist under the old regime, Orion was still millennia older than your civilization is now.”

“You didn’t tell me humans were such a new species,” Orion said, turning to him, some of his tension giving way to his innate curiosity.

“I’ve realized it’s not as relevant as one might think,” Ratchet said with a shrug. “Given their overall fragility, they are surprisingly capable.”

“Should we not send them with Arcee and Bumblebee, then?” Orion asked, and Ratchet didn’t miss the way they perked up at the suggestion.

“I’ve always wanted to visit Cybertron,” Raf said hopefully, but Ratchet shook his head.

“Too dangerous.” He had considered it as they had outlined the plan, especially in regard to the fact that potential collapses in the tunnels leading to Vector Sigma could make it a challenge for a fully framed bot to pass through. As of late, though, the idea of sending the children into danger had become increasingly distasteful to him, and even imagining it now had him reaching up to palm the slight swell of his abdomen.

Catching himself, he made like he was brushing dust off his plating and did not check to see whether Orion had noticed.

“Aw, come on, Ratchet,” Miko said, leaning over the railing. “You’re just saying that because you think we’re a bunch of sparklings.”

“What? No, of course not,” Ratchet said, turning to the groundbridge console so he wouldn’t have to face anyone. “Human adolescents and Cybertronian sparklings couldn’t be more different.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “You have been going a little mother hen on us late—”

“Okay, fine, go.” It was a foolish thing to get his gears wound over, especially given that he didn’t know what a hen was, but it was the quickest way he could think of to shut down the conspiratorial tone in Jack’s voice. The children were getting to know him and he wasn’t quite prepared to know how to deal with that.

There were excited cheers, followed by a long stretch of waiting for Fowler to make an extra supply run and a mission briefing. By the time the bridge was up and the team was leaving, the children had almost started to seem like they regretted asking, though that was forgotten as they sped off through the portal. It closed behind them and Ratchet released an exvent. They would be fine, he reassured himself. Cybertron was dangerous, but they had two capable warriors looking out for them. They would be fine.

“You’re worried about them,” Orion noted, laying a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder.

“No, not really,” Ratchet said, unsuccessfully shrugging it away. “They’re fragile things. It’s going to take work to keep them safe over there.” One might have been manageable, but the three together had a talent for getting into the most dangerous possible situations.

“I don’t know much about them, or Arcee and Bumblebee,” Orion said. “But I do know we must trust them a great deal.” He turned Ratchet away from the console. “I am curious: do you consider them like sparklings?”

“No,” Ratchet insisted, shaking his head. “They’re small, yes, and they still have much to learn about the world. But they are also much more independent than a sparkling would be at their age. They deserve the chance to exercise it.” He knew it, he made tried to hold himself to it, but that wasn’t enough to stop him from worrying.

“Mm,” Orion hummed, the sound he made when there was something on his mind he had not yet figured out how to piece into words.

“We should be glad they’re not Cybertronian,” Ratchet went on. “If those three had vehicle modes, we’d run ourselves dry just chasing them down.”

Orion chuckled.

“You’ve given that some thought,” he said.

“Swapping species? No, not too much,” Ratchet said. “Jack would make a fine train, but otherwise—”

“Sparklings, I mean.”

Ratchet stopped. He looked at where Optimus’ hand still held him, then covered it with his own.

“No, not much,” he said. “Have you?”

“I hadn’t. I didn’t think it would be part of my future, but Bumblebee made a comment earlier.”

Ratchet glanced up finally as he felt his faceplates start to heat. Of course, they hadn’t managed to keep a secret for more than a day.

“Orion, I’m—”

“The sire of our sparkling. I know.”

Ratchet froze. Orion’s gentle expression turned concerned.

“Unless, perhaps, I misunderstood, in which—”

“ _Yes,_ ” Ratchet said. “I mean—yes, I’m a sire. But not exactly.” Couldn’t this ever be simple?

Now, Orion looked confused, which could technically be considered an improvement.

“I—”

“Don’t understand, I know,” Ratchet said. “Just, trust me when I tell you it’s complicated, not really worth getting into when you’re about to get your memories back anyway.”

“I. Hm.”

“We’re having a sparkling together.” He pulled Orion’s hand down and pressed it over his spark. “We’re doing it because we love each other and we love this bitlet, even if we haven’t met them yet.”

“And you’re the sire, and I’m…”

Ratchet sighed.

“It makes me happy when you call me the sire. I like it, but it’s inaccurate.” It felt right, even though he knew it was incorrect, and the inconsistency there was the reason he’d never brought it up. Trying to explain it sounded exhausting.

Orion’s confusion disappeared, though, replaced with an unexpected understanding that Ratchet wasn’t sure what to make of.

“Then I will continue to do so,” he said. “Is… Optimus, I suppose, aware of this?”

“No.” Ratchet shook his head.

“If I keep these memories, then I suppose it won’t be an issue,” Orion said. “But if I don’t, please tell him. I know he would be pleased at any opportunity to make the sire of his sparkling happy.”

Ratchet stared up at Orion, not sure what to say, a sense of _rightness_ clicking into his spark. He pulled Orion forward, wrapping around him in a tight, desperate hug, and he held his bonded until the comms crackled with the team announcing their success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience!


	13. Chapter 13

Despite the team’s reassurances, Optimus could not help but feel a bit of guilt over his brief absence. Physical presence meant little when one’s mind was elsewhere, and so he was trying to make up for it now, being available for whatever the team needed of him. For Arcee, it had been a silent drive through the Nevada wilderness. Bulkhead and Wheeljack and pulled him into a lively session of reminiscing and storytelling. Bumblebee and the humans had yet to make any requests, but he tried to let them know the offer was open whenever they wanted to act on it.

Ratchet was the only one who had refused outright, but this had not been a surprise. Optimus knew his bonded could be obstinate and disliked dwelling on anything more emotionally taxing than a lost screw, and would find his own way to seek comfort when he needed it. So, Optimus let him go about his business while he focused on untangling the bundle of data he had received from Vector Sigma.

He was standing at the base’s main terminal, picking through files he did not remember, when he heard Ratchet’s pedesteps coming up behind him, followed by a small nudge against his back.

“Ratchet?” he asked, not looking away from the screen. If he could only figure out where this had come from…

Something lightweight and crackling was thrown over his shoulders. Optimus stopped what he was doing to look down, discovering Ratchet had covered him in a blue tarp, the kind humans used to protect their vehicles from inclement weather. He pinched the plastic materials and the whole thing shifted, its weight dragging it off his shoulders.

Ratchet swept in and adjusted it, bundling it up so it would sit properly. Optimus could still feel it sliding down his back, but slower this time, and he supposed if he hunched forward a bit he would be able to make it stay.

“Thank you?” he said.

Ratchet fussed with it one more time, scowled at the sheet, then turned and walked off, leaving Optimus grasping at the edges of the tarp and wondering what that had been about.

Muttering in the medbay was never a good sign. Optimus approached cautiously, footsteps heavy and slow to signal his approach long before he entered Ratchet’s line of sight.

Though, when he stepped forward, he found that he need not have bothered. Ratchet did not look up from where he was crouched on the floor, sifting through a long storage contained. He was talking to himself, whisps of words that did not seem to indicate anything more serious than his usual state of being.

“All is well?” he asked, just to be sure.

“Oh, Optimus!” The sour notes in his voice evaporated as Ratchet looked up. “Good timing, I was about to comm you.” He pulled something out of the container as he leaned back to stand. Optimus reached forward to help him, compensating for the extra bulk Ratchet was still figuring out how to navigate around. “Here.”

He presented the object in his hand. Optimus stared at it, then reached forward, taking it in two fingers. The hook of the bungee cord bounced in front of his optics, small enough that it was almost enveloped in his fingertips.

“Thank you,” he said, “but perhaps you could explain the significance of this?” If it was serious enough that Ratchet would have commed rather than wait until they passed each other or met for their off shifts, both of which occurred frequently, Optimus felt he had a duty to understand.

“It’s a bungee cord.”

Optimus nodded.

“Yes,” he said, in complete agreement.

“It’s _useful_.”

Again, Optimus agreed, which only seemed to frustrate Ratchet further.

“I found them for you,” he said, stooping again, only to rise with a pile of similar cords cradled in his arm. He thrust them to Optimus, who barely caught the pile and still heard a few tumble to the ground like an unsightly rainstorm. Some were still brightly colored and new, while others bore the grime of use, paint and rubber chipping off the inner bends of the hooks. Some were still connected, which turned the bundle into a twisted, tangled mess, and more importantly, begged the question of _where they had all come from_.

“Did you have a purpose in mind for them?” Optimus asked.

“They hold things together.”

Optimus almost asked what things, but he realized such a line of questioning would get him no further. He leaned down to retrieve the cords that had fallen , accepting the two more than tumbled from his grip as acceptable losses, and made to leave the medbay.

“Thank you, Ratchet,” he said. “These will be… I’ll find a use for them.”

Ratchet nodded, a sharp movement, and looked away.

“Right. Good. See that you do,” he said as he turned to one of his consoles, ignoring the open container and the bungee cords lying on the floor.

Still, he did not consider himself truly at a loss until he stepped into their quarters the next night to the sound of a crash. He rushed in, concerned, but stopped short when he discovered Ratchet dusting off his hands, standing proudly over a stack of mismatched sheet metal.

“Ratchet?” he said as he stepped closer. “What is this?”

“Don’t mind me, just finishing up,” Ratchet said, stepping back from the pile and reaching over to tug Optimus down, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Ready to recharge or do you need fuel first?”

“I’m alright,” Optimus said automatically, his optics still stuck on the pile of scrap. He had no idea where Ratchet could have found it, and some sheets looked distressingly familiar. “What is this about?”

“It’s for you.”

Optimus leaned down to start picking through it, becoming more convinced of his suspicions as he took a closer look.

“Did you pull this from the _wall_?”

“It’s sturdy material,” Ratchet said, no hint of shame in his voice. Optimus looked up and actually saw Ratchet grinning, like he was boasting over his accomplishment. Their optics caught, though, and his smile faltered.

“You don’t like it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand it,” Optimus said, standing up to face his bonded. “Why all the gifts?”

Ratchet shuffled his pedes and looked down.

“I thought you’d like them,” he said.

“Scrap metal and bungee cords?” Optimus asked, and then rushed in as Ratchet seemed to wilt further. “I’m sorry, I appreciate the thought. I do. Don’t think I don’t.” He was half reached forward, uncertain whether Ratchet would want comfort or affection right now; sometimes trying to make up for his missteps created more drama than the inciting incident.

Luckily, he did not have to figure it out this time, as Ratchet was the one to step forward and lean against Optimus, helm against his windshield and hands rested loosely on his hips. Optimus’ arms came up automatically, draped protectively over his shoulders.

“I know,” he said, “because you’re too nice to even think something I’d given you was slag.”

“That’s not—”

“No, don’t try to defend me here,” Ratchet said. “In all honesty, I don’t know what that was about. I keep seeing things around the base and thinking, oh, Optimus would like that. This seems like something he needs. Didn’t even stop to consider it, really, just grabbed.”

“ _Did_ you take apart a wall?”

Ratchet scoffed and pulled back, a glimmer of humor back in his optics.

“We weren’t even using that room.”

“ _Ratchet_.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” he insisted. “It’s more to protect humans from their own utility setups than anything else. As long as the children don’t find their way in…”

His smile dropped as his thoughts caught up to his processor.

“Miko’s probably already in there, isn’t she?” he asked.

“According to Bulkhead, she’s safe at home now,” Optimus said with a gentle smile as he guided Ratchet toward their berth. “Which means we have time to recharge before we start putting these back.”

Ratchet hummed his agreement, but there was something off about it.

“You don’t want to?” Optimus guessed.

“Intellectually, I understand that we need to,” Ratchet said. “You’re right that it’s a safety hazard, and I definitely won’t want to be tiptoeing around piles of junk with my center of gravity out of whack. I just can’t shake the feeling you need them.”

“Something in your processor?” Optimus suggested as he settled back on the berth, tugging Ratchet closer.

“Could be,” Ratchet said. He paused, giving Optimus a chance to reach out and brush a hand over the swell of his abdomen. He knew he had not always been the most perceptive bot, but that Orion had failed to notice anything different about his best friend’s frame was something he would struggle to live down for a long time yet.

“A nutritional deficit?” he guessed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t love our bitlet enough to eat a bungee cord salad.” Ratchet got one hand on the berth and another on Optimus’ shoulder, while the latter reached around to pull him up and over, onto the berth. There was a bit of shuffling as they made themselves comfortable in their usual configuration before both settled with a sigh.

“No, I supposed not,” Optimus agreed. “Perhaps a nesting instinct?”

“That’s—hm.”

“Hm?”

“It’s possible,” Ratchet said. His grip around Optimus’ torso tightened. “Wouldn’t mind keeping you somewhere safe for a while.”

“As a perfect sire would,” Optimus said, pressing a kiss to the top of Ratchet’s helm before he picked up his head to look back over at the pile on the ground. The bungee cords and the tarp were further back, thrown into a corner among other things he had promised himself he would deal with later.

“You didn’t get _all_ of it from one room, did you?”

“No, I found some of it loose around,” Ratchet said. “Pried a few plates from inside a storage closet, but they’re not very good. Why?”

“I’ll see what I can do with it,” Optimus said. “I’m not very creative, I’m afraid, but I can put something together to keep us safe in here.”

Ratchet didn’t say anything. But Optimus felt the strain as he tried to pull them together even closer, and he settled back down on the berth with a contented hum, rubbing Ratchet’s back until they both dropped into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, again! Life's going back to (relative) normal, soon, so I should have an easier time writing and getting things up on time.


	14. Chapter 14

It was a bad idea from the start. After all, it had come from Starscream. Had the potential reward been anything short of an Omega Key, they would have dismissed it out of hand.

If only.

Ratchet tried to argue that it was worth having him on the field to provide adequate medical care to make more likely Starscream would keep to his end of the bargain, but he was met with a unanimous _no_ from the rest of the team. Besides the obvious threat posed by the infamous Decepticon, even humans now could see the difference Ratchet’s carriage had made in his frame. A cold constructed Vehicon, with no knowledge of their own species’ reproduction, would be able to point it out. As soon as Ratchet made himself visible, their secret would be out, so he was consigned to the base while Wheeljack went in his stead.

“Just don’t put it in upside-down,” Ratchet had said as they left. It was the most helpful advice he could think to give. Either Wheeljack would know how to perform the surgery, or he would not, and he had assured everyone that repeated practice on himself over the years had made him plenty prepared.

Ratchet felt no reassurance, except for that, at the end of the day, it was just Starscream under Wheeljack’s scalpel. The worst possible scenarios were not actually that negative.

So, he was back at base, already concerned from the order to close the groundbridge, when the shock of Optimus’ despair nearly dropped him to his knees.

“Get on the comms,” he demanded, grabbing the groundbridge controls for stability. Bumblebee went for the central hub while Arcee reached for him, her concern pouring out but not making it far past Ratchet’s own worried thoughts. Unable to reassure her, he nodded that he was alright and pushed away her offers of help, pushing himself to go join Bumblebee.

His spark was whirling in his chest, panicked in response to its bonded’s distress, a feeling made tolerable only by the knowledge that at least he was still alive. The bond, though fraught, was still strong.

“Optimus,” he said as soon as the link was online. “What happened?”

“Starscream’s machinations were more involved than we realized,” Optimus said. Ratchet heard the tremble in his voice. He was furious. “He stole the Omega Keys.”

The three bots on base caught each other’s optics, and Ratchet saw expressions he was sure mirrored his own.

“Any chance of pursuit?” he asked.

“He got away through a groundbridge,” Bulkhead said. “Could be anywhere.”

“The _Jackhammer_ might be able to track him, if the signal’s still out there,” Wheeljack said.

Ratchet nodded to no one.

“Come back to base,” he said. “There’s no more reason for you to be out there.” He had been more anxious lately whenever Optimus went out for missions, and this proved to be the event that pushed him over the edge. Whatever advantage there might have been to staying out to look for Starscream came second to his increasing need to have Optimus back where it was safe.

He somehow got the groundbridge online without any conscious thought on the process. He stared at the portal until, with relief, he recognized Optimus’ approaching frame, and allowed just enough time for the trudging bots to get back into the base before he closed it again. The silence rang in their audials.

“What do we do now?” Arcee asked.

“We wait,” Optimus said. “Starscream does not tend to keep his schemes quiet for long. Whatever his intentions with the Omega Keys, I am sure we will know soon enough.” It was an admission of defeat. Ratchet curled his fists, fighting his body’s instincts to reach out and comfort and protect.

“This isn’t over yet,” he said.

“Of course,” Optimus said, in a voice that sounded like he very much wished it was.

Ratchet could relate. He was reaching the point where standing for too long landed him with an ache somewhere deep in his struts, and he could feel his body asking for reprieve even if his processor struggled to conceive of it. That was not the nature of their lives.

He felt his sparkling shift in his gestation tank.

Optimus gave out orders, amounting to staying on guard and being ready for whenever Starscream or the Decepticons made their next move. The children were not to be brought out in the field, a point Ratchet especially had pushed for, and any suspicious activity was to be reported immediately. Waiting did not mean idle: when the time came to act, they needed to be ready.

Ratchet waited until the others started to disperse before he stepped forward.

“And me, Optimus?” he asked. “I can keep working on weapons maintenance, but if there is anything of greater urgency I would prefer to focus on that.” They were all in need of tune-ups, but he knew how likely it was that he would get any of them to sit down long enough for a checkup. At a time when there was very little that could be accomplished, everyone wanted to be doing something.

“You should rest,” Optimus said. “I’m sure the sparkling is weighing on you, and we need you alert when the time comes.”

“I can’t do that,” Ratchet said, even as he shifted his weight to try to find a more comfortable posture. “If I tried to sit still right now, I think I’d end up back on my feet after just a couple minutes, looking for something to work on. Better that I skip the extra steps and get straight to it.”

“Is that healthy?” Optimus asked.

“It’s the best I can do.” Ratchet shrugged. “Not like any of this is ideal: active duty in the middle of a war on an alien planet. If I were my own patient, I would say to get out of here and become a neutral. But obviously that’s not going to happen.”

Optimus’ gaze was steady, his expression hardened into something unhappy. Ratchet stared, trying to figure out whether he had misspoke, when a teek from the bond told him what Optimus was thinking.

“ _No_ ,” he said. “I’m not leaving. You need me.”

“Our sparkling needs you more.”

“And I will always be there for them. Always,” Ratchet swore. “But I can’t do the same for you if I’m half a galaxy away.”

Optimus stood unmoved.

“What do you think would happen?” Ratchet demanded, stepping closer. He knew he would fall short of his goal to intimidate the Prime, straining to stand up straight with his abdomen hanging heavy between them, but his frustration was spilling out. They had been _so close_. “The moment I stepped off this planet, Soundwave would show up or Megatron would come back, you would get scrapped, and I wouldn’t be there to fix you. That would be it, Optimus. The _end_ of the war.”

Optimus stared back at him for a moment before his hand came out and he wrapped their fingers together. Ratchet startled, touched by the sudden softness, and felt his hostility drain away as quickly as it had appeared.

“I find myself thinking about that more often as of late,” Optimus said. “The end of this war.” His gaze moved from Ratchet’s optics down to the curve of his belly. Ratchet put his hand over it in a rare self-conscious gesture.

“I’m admit I might have started letting hope get the better of me,” he said. “I want our sparkling to know their own planet.”

“As do I,” Optimus said.

The silence of the base pressed down on them again, and Ratchet was struck by the realization that everyone else had slipped out. He knew Arcee and Bumblebee were off working on their assignments, but Bulkhead had also disappeared, possibly for the sake of giving them privacy. They were alone, and though they both had duties they needed to attend to, suddenly the need to comfort his bonded in ways words could not seemed far more important.

“Come with me,” Ratchet said, tugging Optimus out of the main room.

“But I—”

“Just a few minutes,” Ratchet promised. “Let me take care of you.”

Optimus relented, following Ratchet even when they passed the medbay and instead made for their private quarters. Ratchet herded him inside, closing the door behind them, before yanking him down into a desperate kiss. Optimus was slow to respond, but when he did it was with enthusiasm, wrapping his arms around Ratchet. There was a _hiss-click_ as Ratchet’s panel sprung open, and he felt an inaudible rumble of laughter against his lips.

“Eager,” Optimus commented as they parted.

“I promised it’d be quick,” Ratchet said as he guided him further in, to the nest Optimus had constructed. It had turned out a plain design, but functional: a secure outer wall of metal panels with an interior of squishy foam and tarps. It was the thought Ratchet appreciated more than anything else, and the security he felt when Optimus chose to rest in it, knowing that his bonded was somewhere defensible.

Now, they fell into it together, Optimus first as he helped lower Ratchet down at a safer speed. Ratchet ended up straddling his hips, earlier anxiety forgotten as he gazed down at his gorgeous partner and smiled, stroking his cheek.

“Open for me,” he said, and Optimus did, his spike coming free as he helped adjust Ratchet into a better position.

“Ready?” he asked.

Ratchet answered with a twitch of his hips, sinking his volve over the waiting head of the spike. He sighed at the familiar feeling, grateful for Optimus’ hands as they helped guide and steady his descent. The spike slipped into him and his ventilations stuttered, calipers already grasping for more.

They moved together, Ratchet’s hands braced against Optimus’ windshield with his belly bouncing between them. This position seemed to get more challenging with each passing day, but it gave Ratchet the control he needed while also keeping in line with his body’s demands. Optimus thrust up and he rolled his hips forward, gasping as Optimus’ spike ground against his ceiling node.

“ _Oh_ , oh please, right there, that’s perfect.” Ratchet bore down again, trying to draw in as much as he could take.

Optimus’ engine growled in response, his frame heating up as Ratchet flexed his fingers against the sensitive glass. They arched and pushed into each other, sliding in and out of a rhythm. Ratchet’s overload came on him suddenly and he cursed as the pool of warmth in his pelvis exploded, sending shivers throughout his frame as his valve squeezed down on Optimus’ spark. He bucked forward, and after a few more thrusts Optimus was overloading, too, his transfluid filling Ratchet until, with a final shudder, he slumped into the nest, spent.

Ratchet lifted himself off Optimus’ spike before he set to the task of lowering himself, one hand around his abdomen while he balanced with the other. Optimus helped him down, and soon he was lying on his side, comfortable and supported. Optimus produced a cleaning cloth and set to the task of wiping them down, though Ratchet knew there would not be much mess. His frame guzzled transfluid like an overeager vacuum.

“How are your fuel levels?” Optimus asked as he sat back to clean himself. Ratchet would have preferred to take care of it, but his energy levels weren’t there anymore. After interfacing, he usually needed a quick nap before he could get back into action.

“Could use a top up,” he said, which seemed to be his constant state these days.

Optimus helped him sit up, then produced a cube, waiting patiently while Ratchet drank.

“We will get them back,” he said as Ratchet finished. “One way or another, I promise you that our sparkling will see a living Cybertron.”

“Never doubted you,” Ratchet said. Doubt was easy. With the odds stacked against them and so many unknowns, it was easy to slip into thinking there was no way they could win this. Hope took far more effort, but Ratchet had to believe it was worth it. As long as they hoped, they would have a reason to fight with everything they had, and a shot at giving their sparkling the future they dreamed about together.

“I know,” Optimus said. A pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s forehead. “Rest as long as you need. I’ll comm you if there are any developments.”

Before he could leave, Ratchet caught his hand.

“We’re in this together,” he said, with a meaningful glance at his belly. “Don’t forget that.”

“I will not,” Optimus promised. Ratchet watched him go before he settled back down in the nest, at peace with the knowledge that they would give this bit all they had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big time jump! Plot stuff happening in the background, optiratch love in the foreground. We're getting close to the end here, I've got three or four chapters left in my outline. Thank you for the nice comments ^^ I don't often respond, but know that I read them all and appreciate them dearly!


	15. Chapter 15

“We must stop Starscream, no matter the cost.”

It felt like Optimus’ words were echoing through Ratchet’s helm. He fiddled with the newly forged spacebridge controls again, updating the coordinates as the team pinged him another update. They were making good progress, going by distance traveled. Also, by lack of communication. If one of them had reached out now, it would have been to say that something had gone wrong. The radio silence meant that, somehow, this was working.

“Nothing going wrong so far,” he said. “Doesn’t mean we’re in the clear yet, though. Far from it.”

The bitlet was resting, their sleep undisturbed by the sound of his voice. He had no idea how, when he was sure the erratic speed of his spark must have been making a racket in his internals, but he was grateful for the clarity it granted him. He didn’t have to worry about a poorly timed kick shocking him the moment the team called for a bridge back, or constant flutters hyping up his saturated anxiety. He could focus on the screen and his comms and the waiting.

The long, monotonous waiting.

Another set of coordinates came in. He plugged them in with a feeling of automation like one might see in a munition’s factory: quick, precise, and controlled. He submitted the new coordinates barely aware he had typed them in, and then hunched forward to wait for the next batch.

“Any word?” Wheeljack asked. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, looking, of all things, bored.

“No,” Ratchet said. “If—when they reach out, you’ll get it the same moment I do.”

“What about the old spark bond?”

“Too far away,” Ratchet said, hoping that by being curt he could hide how much that fact distressed him. It was lonely and anxiety-provoking, to have to keep reminding himself that Optimus was fine until proven otherwise, so he tried to distract himself from thinking about it again by testing to make sure the dials on the console were operating correctly.

“When’s the last time you were on Cybertron?” Wheeljack asked.

Ratchet recognized a blatant distraction when it was handed to him. Though he doubted its efficacy when the things Wheeljack was trying to distract him from were pressing down on him constantly, he decided to humor the attempt.

“The _Ark_ ,” he said. “Was in the middle of piecing Optimus back together when Perceptor showed up to tell us he had no way to get us back.”

“Aha, good old Percy. You let him off with a warning, doc?”

“Of course not.” Ratchet was almost offended by the suggestion. “As Chief Medical Officer, I was well within my right to have him hauled immediately to the brig. Of course, then Ultra Magnus arrived with the bureaucracy, and we had to let him go. Wasn’t…” He trailed off as the next set of coordinates came in. When he finished typing, he realized Wheeljack was still watching, waiting for him to go on, but he had zoned out so far, he had forgotten whatever story he was telling. He pulled back from the console, just far enough that he looked less like he was just barely tolerating Wheeljack’s company. “What about you?”

“Few centuries ago,” Wheeljack said. “Ended up on a Quantoan colony asteroid while hunting down Bombshell. Couple of locals decided they weren’t interested in my creds, told me to go home. So, I did.”

“You gave up on a mission for that?”

Wheeljack shrugged.

“The trail had gone cold,” he said, “and I was due for a break. Figured I could spend some time off and see what I could get from Decepticon airwaves in that sector. Did end up catching Bombshell after a tip from a dating show worked out, so I don’t consider it time lost. But that’s another story.” He waved it away. “I got to Cybertron. You can imagine how it looked.”

“Like slag?”

“Worse,” Wheeljack said. “At least with molten, you know how you got to that point. Heat plus metal equals goo, easy.”

“That’s hardly a scientific description.” Ratchet was too invested in distracting himself to let Wheeljack get away with that.

“And I haven’t been known as an engineer in stellar cycles,” Wheeljack said with a smug grin. “Sorry if I’ve lost touch with the lingo.” Even before his transfer to the Wreckers, Wheeljack’s reports had a reputation for his creativity in describing mechanical phenomena.

“Cybertron, though,” he went on. “Had no idea something could fall apart that much. Everything falling down or falling apart. All those statues the Senate put up, the ones that were supposed to last generations, are wiped out.”

“It’s to be expected,” Ratchet said. “Our home has gone all this time with no one to maintain it. Rust and corrosion are normal.”

“ _I_ didn’t expect it,” Wheeljack said. “But then, I’m the explosions guy. If I need something gone, I wipe it out. No traces left.” He pushed off from the wall, flexing his shoulder pauldrons. “Look, what I’m saying is that you should count yourself as one of the lucky ones. The last time you saw Cybertron, it was still sort of standing, and the next will be after Optimus works his Prime magic on it. You and your bit don’t have to have that awkward middle phase stuck in your processor.”

“You know they can’t actually see through my optics, right?”

“That’s what they say, but my carrier was a marksmech, and he says I knew the inside of a gun before I even knew the word for it.”

Ratchet shook his head, saved from having to reply by the next set of coordinates. By the time he was finished typing them in, Wheeljack had joined him at his side, watching as he worked. Ratchet had argued against having a guard with him, trying to convince Optimus that he needed as many bots on Cybertron as they could afford, but he had to admit the Wrecker’s presence was a comfort.

“You think they’ll do it?” he asked.

“Hard to say.” Though less than encouraging, Ratchet was grateful for Wheeljack’s honesty. He was not in the mood to be coddled. “Starscream and Soundwave are a formidable team-up when they’re getting along, especially if the rumors are true and old Megs isn’t holding them back anymore. At the same time, you know how much this means to Optimus. He’d do anything to get Cybertron back.”

Optimus’ words rang through Ratchet’s processor again.

“Not anything,” he said, “but close.”

“Sure,” Wheeljack said. “I’d say our odds aren’t bad, but they’re not great. Starscream’s good at turning things in his favor when you’re least expecting it.”

“Yes,” Ratchet agreed. He wished he knew what was going on right now. The pings were the best they could do with the resources they had: anything more complex would have taken time and bandwidth they could not afford.

As if reading his thoughts, the console rang with an incoming communication. Ratchet fumbled, missing the answer command in his haste, and had to turn his head away to miss Wheeljack’s amused smirk.

“Optimus?” he asked.

“No, Ratchet, it’s Jack.”

“Jack?” He put a hand to his face. “Oh, scrap.”

“Forgot the humans?” Wheeljack asked.

“We were so focused on logistics of the mission that we forgot day-to-day operations.” Which was fine for equipment maintenance and patrol, less so for beings they had promised to protect.

“We figured that,” Miko said. “Something big going on?”

“One of us is going to have to go pick them up,” Ratchet said, ignoring the question.

“You mean me,” Wheeljack said.

“Not necessarily.”

“Ratchet.” Wheeljack did not finish his thought, just gestured to Ratchet’s widened midsection. Ratchet hid his embarrassment by eyeing Wheeljack in turn.

“How many seatbelts do you have?” he asked.

“Seatbelts?” Wheeljack repeated. Ratchet must have made a face, because he laughed. “Don’t worry, the kids will be alright. I’ve even started figuring out how stoplights work.” Ratchet had no way to know whether he was being serious. “You going to be okay here by yourself?”

He kept his tone light, but Ratchet did not miss the way Wheeljack’s optics flashed.

“The Decepticons have yet to pinpoint our location and are likely all distracted right now,” Ratchet said. “I’ll be fine.” Out of everyone he knew, his own safety was the least of his concern.

“I know. Not what I meant.”

Ratchet realized he had started to fidget with the controls again. He pulled his hands back, resting them on his abdomen.

“I will,” he promised. “Might actually be better off, knowing at least the children are safe.”

“Safe? What’s going on, Ratchet?” Jack asked.

“Eyp-eyp-eyp, sit tight,” he said. “Wheeljack’s on his way.” He hung up.

“Okay,” Wheeljack said, starting to turn away but not committing. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” He drummed his fingers against his rounded plating. “The humans put their trust in us to protect them; they rely on us. I would go myself if I could fit in my alt mode anymore.” The idea of the children, alone and unprotected, on an otherwise unremarkable street on Earth, was somehow just as disturbing to him as imagining the love of his life going to battle on a decimated planet.

Wheeljack smiled, not mocking this time, but something uncommon and genuine.

“Think you’re going to be an alright parent, doc,” he said, before flipping into his alt mode and speeding off. Ratchet watched him go, feeling something in his spark ease. He turned back to the console and discovered he had missed a ping during the conversation. He quickly put it in, just moments before the next came through.

Before the team left, Optimus had laid out the stakes the simplest way he could: “We must stop Starscream, no matter the cost.”

“Hey!” Ratchet had shouldered his way to the front of the group, stopping directly in front of his bonded. “None of that. Not today.”

Optimus had faltered.

“This is our last chance,” he had said, to which Ratchet vehemently shook his head.

“Be that as it may,” he said, “there are things more important than getting Cybertron back. I refuse to lose a single one of you.” He swung around to address the group. “I can’t be there to provide support, so it’s on you to keep yourselves and each other safe. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” a chorus of voices said.

He had then turned back to Optimus.

“When our bitlet takes their first steps, whatever world it happens on, you will be there to guide them.”

Optimus had smiled at him, a soft and sad thing.

“Very well,” he said.

Optimus would not have agreed if he hadn’t meant it. Ratchet trusted him, and that was what he held onto while he continued to input codes and wait for a real update. Optimus had promised to survive. The fate of Cybertron would be a mere bonus.

The comms pinged again, and this time Ratchet was calmer as he answered it.

“Yes?” he said, at the same moment he heard Wheeljack’s engine far off at the entrance of the base.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, “we have located the Omega Lock.”

The tension swept from Ratchet’s frame as he leaned against the console.

“At last,” he sighed. As if on cue, the bitlet started to move, perhaps drawn to wakefulness by the sound of their other creator’s voice. He put a hand against his belly, trying to soothe them. Now was no time for distractions.

Wheeljack pulled to a stop behind him, giving time for the children to climb out before the transformed.

“Any news?” he asked.

“They just found it,” Ratchet said.

“Found what?” Jack asked.

Optimus kept him comm on, and through it, Ratchet was able to hear as ancient gears turned, long unpracticed transformations coming back just as smoothly as the last time they had taken place. The bitlet continued to move, poking at the wall of his gestation chamber.

“The key to our future,” Ratchet said.

“The lock,” Wheeljack corrected.

“Ready?” Optimus asked.

The keys slid home with a sound like something coming alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months ago, I was halfway through a cross country drive when I asked myself, "What if we just skipped season 3 entirely?" So glad to have finally made it XD


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some minor peril in this one. Nothing graphic, and no one's in any real danger ^^ (not even Starscream)

Starscream had known the Omega Keys were a waste of time. Tools made by Autobots, with a map written by Autobots, for the purpose of recreating a perfect Autobot society would never do as they were told in Decepticon hands. Even Soundwave’s generally reliable data cables had loosed their grip at the most crucial moment, and their last backup plan had proven ineffective when their bargaining chips had come up missing. The _Nemesis_ had looked on from a distance while the Omega Lock was brought online, and Soundwave had called for complete evacuation once the revitalization process began.

Starscream, though, brilliant as he was, had come up with an actual plan. One that would secure everything they had dreamed of, wipe their planet of those Autobot pests, and perhaps even live up to the Decepticon name along the way. Soundwave, upon hearing it, had opened a groundbridge, stepped through, and not been seen by anyone since.

Starscream had always pegged him for a coward. Not that he would have said it to Soundwave’s non-face, but it was nice to be proven right.

Even nicer was the thrill of success he felt striding to and fro before the recently captured Optimus Prime.

“Doctor,” he purred, not directly to the camera. A look slightly askance heightened the tension, and he let his gaze drift naturally across the interior of the _Nemesis_ ’ holding cell, tracking an orange cable that pulsed from where it was embedded in the wall. “I suppose congratulations are in order. Your Autobots have succeeded after all, haven’t they? Megatron vanquished, Cybertron revived. I can hear the Galactic Council’s bureaucracy machine powering up from here. Everything you’ve ever wanted.”

He stopped by Optimus’ kneeling form and traced a razor-sharp claw over his helm. As it turned out, all it took to fell a Prime was a lucky shot and some quick thinking. Starscream would have expressed surprise at Megatron’s inability to come up with so simple a plan any time in the last several millennia, but that would have been denying his intimate knowledge of where Megaron’s processor went any time Optimus was referenced.

“Well, almost everything. You get a passing grade.”

He crouched down and got his fingers under Optimus’ chin, lifting it up. The stasis cuffs left him in control of his optics, and though they glanced at the camera, they turned with more intention on Starscream, glaring at him with the most force one could muster when cut off from the rest of their body. If he had not seen this same bot slag the bane of his existence several dozen times with an arm or leg hanging on by wires, Starscream would have been impressed.

“As you can see, he’s alive, getting the best medical care we can provide.” Which, granted, was limited to a single doctor who had been a detailer in his life before the war. Autobots liked to say things like that were a good effort, though, even when the results of said effort weren’t worth the solvent off a washrack floor, and Starscream imagined they would take the tarp secured around the shattered half of Optimus’ windshield as a sign of goodwill.

“We will continue to maintain him until you come retrieve him,” he went on. “Feel free to do so any time.” The guards assembled along the corridors would make a fine welcome party. Even now, Starscream could hear their muffled voices through the closed door, murmurs that could have been excitement for the coming fight. He sent out a general reminder to not shoot the Autobots on sight: someone had to be left over to pass on his message.

“Understand, though, that entry to the _Nemesis_ is contingent upon your agreement and participation in a list of rules. Non-negotiable, of course. Such is the standard when you are a guest in someone else’s home.” He stood and resumed his pacing.

This was where the brilliance of his plan came in. In normal circumstances, the Prime’s personal fan club would have ignored his ransom note and come straight for their leader, and in the process wiped out half of Starscream’s remaining forces with their blind idolatry. From what he had seen during his brief foray into the Autobot base, though, circumstances were far from normal. Ratchet had been missing from the field for some time, and though the Autobots had long taken advantage of their ability to keep their one medic off the battlefield, his complete disappearance had started to raise suspicions.

Starscream understood now, of course, just as he understood that the spawn must have been Optimus’. He knew the Prime and his medic were bonded. _Everyone_ who had been present for one of Megatron’s soliloquies about the war and individuals and society pieced together that important fact eventually. Somewhere between the lines about the self and the hand and destiny the pieces would come together: _Oh, that’s what this is about._

He could just imagine the weepy carrier, begging the team to show compassion and do exactly as Starscream asked to ensure the sire of his sparkling came home safe. The whole team softened by Ratchet’s carriage, who would be able to deny him? Softsparked Autobots, they wouldn’t be able to say no.

“Autobot aggression will cease immediately,” he said, raising his first finger. “You will follow your dear leader’s example and strip yourselves of your weapons before you enter. Feel free to leave them with my mechs: they’ll see that they are well taken care of.”

Starscream paused to glare at the door, the conversations beyond which growing louder. He had neglected to check the sensitivity of his recording equipment: he could only hope the background conversations remained quiet enough he would not have to take another reshoot.

“Next,” he raised his second finger, “Autobots will leave Cybertron permanently. Anyone baring the insignia accepts their status as an exile, up until they come to submit their loyalty to me, Lord—”

Those were definitely gunshots. Starscream dropped his hand into a fist and growled. Could those Vehicons really not resist violence for more than a few minutes? He waved it away, trying to remember where he had been.

“Third. If the Galactic Council ever pursues an inquiry, you will state, under oath, that you—”

 _Bang, bang, CRUNCH_.

“ ** _Starscream!_** ”

He had just enough time to turn and see the charging, glaring Autobot symbol before he was being lifted and _thrown_ , crashing into the nearby wall. He scrambled to sit up, staring with wide optics at _Ratchet_ , heavy and heaving with fury. The door behind him had managed to open halfway before he had torn through the rest, ragged edges still glowing pink where his energon blades had cut them.

“H—what—guards!” Starscream yelled. “Useless—you let him _in_?!”

“You _dare_ threaten my family.” Ratchet stalked forward, hefting two guns as well as his standard blades. Starscream wasn’t sure how he hadn’t heard his footsteps before; they seemed to rattle the entire ship.

“I—it’s _war_ ,” Starscream tried to argue, doubting it would make a difference.

“Ratchet!”

Starscream risked a second to look past rage incarnate and saw even _more_ Autobots coming in through the hole he had made. Arcee was in the lead, and for a brief, dazed moment Starscream wondered if his message had gotten through, because she came unarmed.

“Get back to the groundbridge, _now_.”

“Not without Optimus.”

“You have Optimus. He’s _right here_.”

“Not without teaching Starscream a lesson.” And now both of the guns were pointed at him. Spectacular. “ _No one_ endangers the carri—my _family_.”

“All good, boss?” Bulkhead was asking. He stood in the hallway, unable to fit through the jammed door.

Bumblebee knelt at Optimus’ side, beeping his gibberish while he unhooked the stasis cuffs and helped him stand.

Arcee and Ratchet were still arguing.

“And here I’d started to think that maybe a sparkling would inspire you to get some common sense.”

“What did you expect me to do? Wait for Starscream to give him back?” Ratchet asked. His attention was turned to Arcee now, but although the aim of his guns drifted slightly, it was never far enough to give Starscream an opportunity to flee. He pressed himself closer to the wall, wondering if they would forget he was there.

“I expect you to trust us enough to take care of it,” Arcee said, stepping into his space in a way that seemed counter to her common sense quip. “Team, remember? Family? We look after each other, and we _don’t_ send out our most vulnerable. Especially for something as pathetic as Starscream.”

“Hey,” Starscream said, but it came out more like a whimper.

“I’m not—”

“ _I’m_ talking about the sparkling.”

“I—right.” Ratchet looked down at himself like he had only just remembered he was more submarine-shaped than ambulance. He lowered his guns to his sides. “I apologize.”

“Ratchet?”

“Optimus!” He gasped, and in an instant the guns were away and the two had wrapped each other in a hug. Their voices dropped low enough that Starscream could not hear them, and he started to scoot back along the wall, putting out a call on the general channel to come give him backup.

Unfortunately, there was a blaster on him again before he could make it to the rear door.

“No moves,” Arcee said. “Not until we’re off this ship.” Behind her, Ratchet had a hand on Optimus’ back and was leading him away.

“Wait!” Starscream yelped, realizing only now that his plan had crumpled. “You can’t take him! My demands!”

“Demands, Starscream?” Ratchet turned back, and Starscream found himself shrinking more from those optics than the barrel of the gun pointed at him. “How are these: you let us off this ship, and once we’re gone, you leave Cybertron permanently. In return, provided I never see you again, I won’t have to take you apart and use you for scrap.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t been threatened with before. And yet this time, Starscream found himself nodding. He would have reformatted into a bicycle and pledged a lifetime of service to organics, if that was what Ratchet had asked of him.

Ratchet, though, apparently had enough sense to realize that Starscream never kept promises for more than an hour, so he nodded his satisfaction at that and returned to leading Optimus from the holding cell. Bulkhead had already left, clearing out the corridor, with Bumblebee behind them, and Starscream sent a second call to let the group leave. Arcee was the last to go, backing away with her blaster trained on Starscream until the moment she disappeared into the hall. He did not consider following: though his sensors indicated that the team had left as a group, he felt with great certainty in his spark that poking his head into the hallway would cause him to lose it.

He waited until the report came in that the team had left through a groundbridge, then got up on shaky legs and approached the camera on the wall. He pressed the ‘stop recording’ button, then quietly deleted the footage. No doubt, Soundwave was still somehow tapped into the systems and would find a way to disperse the video among the remaining Decepticons, but he could try to maintain his dignity among the troops under his direct command for a little longer.

Next, he made a call to the bridge.

“Prepare for departure,” he said.

“We’re leaving?” the engineer on duty asked.

“The Autobots have demanded we let them do all the work rebuilding this place,” Starscream said. “It’s going to be nasty labor. We’re better off starting from scratch elsewhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter I've been looking forward to for a while :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is my Transformers mpreg fan fiction an appropriate place to talk about major current events? No, probably not! But I didn’t think about the fact that the US election would be on a Tuesday when I established my posting schedule, and now it feels inappropriate to not at least put a link to [voting info](https://www.vote.org/). If you’re able to and haven’t yet, please make sure to vote, it _will_ make a difference.

Ratchet squinted as he stepped out into the freshly forged street.

“Was sunlight always this… overzealous?” he asked. It wasn’t just the sun itself, but the way it glinted off every fresh surface like it wanted to make sure he couldn’t miss it. Every time he stepped outside, he was bombarded with a haze of _light_ that took his sensors a moment to calibrate to.

“You spent too long underground, doc,” Wheeljack said, stepping up beside him. His optics cycled as his sensory suite went through the same calculations, but his expression did not betray a hint of discomfort. “Haven’t even hit high summer yet. Didn’t spend so long away from home you forgot what that’s like, did you?”

“I tried to save storage space for the fond memories,” Ratchet said, though he did in fact remember. Days so hot and bright exposed energon would spontaneously combust, conversations lost against the constant roar of fans. At its peak, Vos and Altihex experienced days without end, the sun dipping then skimming over the horizon before divorcing from it entirely, after which the evening of the first full sunset was marked with raucous celebrations. Ratchet had visited Altihex during the festivities: mechanisms decorated themselves in fluorescent paints, patterns ranging from simple blocks to minute, intricate designs. The music started when the first marks appeared, and it lasted until every reveler had faded back to their standard colors.

Primus, he had missed this planet.

The parties were long since abandoned and the dancers either scattered or missing, but he could still see evidence of the people who had once been there as he and Wheeljack walked the streets of Iacon. The Omega Lock had done nothing to clean up the trash left behind (which was fair; they had already gotten off easy, having an ancient relic clean up after they had made a mess of things), scraps of metal and glass littering the street around them. Most was probably from the scavengers who had moved through after the final Autobot evacuation, but Ratchet suspected some might have been sitting there since the time of Iacon’s civilian population. What member of a warring faction, for example, would have any use for a historically accurate war novel? The cross-faction romance genre had been a longstanding hit, he recalled, but nothing that required more than a day’s research.

Regardless, the datapad was still functioning, which meant its parts could be repurposed. Ratchet hung onto it and took another scan of the immediate area before he committed himself to the task of standing back up. Noting nothing of value, he braced his hands on his knees and carefully pushed himself up, his spark clenching as he felt his balance slip.

“Woah there!” Hands caught him from behind and steadied him, staying with him until he was upright again. “Careful there, doc. I want a slice of this peacetime stuff, too, and I don’t think Optimus would let me stick around long if you twisted something under my watch.” Wheeljack let Ratchet go but hovered nearby. “All good?”

“Yes,” Ratchet said, hoping his clenched paneling would be read as him making sure he had found equilibrium and not his body’s absolute, ridiculous certainty that _holy scrap he could have_ died. “Forgot my center of gravity again.”

The bitlet stirred lazily. He put a hand to his middle and rubbed gently until they settled.

“How’s your fuel tank?” Wheeljack asked.

Ratchet checked his levels.

“Running low,” he said. It felt like that was always his answer.

Wheeljack looked up and down the street, then pulled out the datapad they had been using to track their progress.

“Call it for the day?” he said. “We can start heading back and look for a place to refuel on the way.”

It was still early in the day, and it felt like they had barely scratched the finish of the abandoned city, but Ratchet nodded and allowed Wheeljack to start leading back the way they had come. At least no one was expecting much from their team: it had been Ratchet’s insistence that he be allowed to help with the exploration efforts, after days of sitting back and watching the rest of the Autobots reconstruct their home had started to get to him. There was always work to do back at base, systems that needed repairs and upgrades, parts from Bumblebee’s scavenging missions to be sorted, but there had come a point where Ratchet realized he could see almost no difference between this and the months he had spent in the silo on Earth.

He was on _Cybertron_. He wanted to feel the crunch of juvenile crystals under his pedes, vent air with texture and substance. Not sit in another lab, tinkering with the same broken engines and troubleshooting the same bothersome code.

That said, after walking this far out, he was looking forward to sitting for a while.

The place they chose to stop looked to have once been a park in the upper-caste sector of the city, a raised square accessible by stairs on each side. The crystal growths had erupted from their enclosures, breaking through between the panels of the walkway in their natural formations. Wheeljack spotted one bench that was still level and led the way to it, attempting to haul aside a fallen shard of one of the larger growths that lay across the path. Eventually recognizing the limits of his strength, he relented and helped Ratchet over instead.

“This is—hmmph—exactly why I told Optimus we need to demolish the old gardens,” Ratchet said as he got his other leg over. “Do you have any idea the expense it took to keep this place maintained? And what you see on the surface is nothing compared to the internal growth. This whole block is going to have to be _scooped_.”

“Feeling unfulfilled by surgery, doc? Thinking you might go into city planning?” Wheeljack helped steady him before they moved on. Ratchet’s system released a satisfied hiss as he sat down.

“Less a plan, more a wishlist,” he said as he leaned back, hand reaching out blindly before an energon cube was pressed into it. He grunted his thanks and took a long drink, letting his optics unfocus as he worked on refueling his body. Wheeljack waited patiently beside him, his own cube already half-empty, the one he had started prior to their setting out.

As soon as Ratchet finished his cube, he tried to stand again, foiled only by Wheeljack gently tugging him back to the bench.

“Hey, slow down,” he said, his voice rippling with an unrealized laugh. “No fires anymore. Take a minute to enjoy the view; or else what’d you spend all that time fighting for?”

“Don’t really feel like sitting,” Ratchet said, trying again and this time successfully evading Wheeljack’s attempts to keep him seated. “Fuel hit me faster than I expected.” His systems felt alert and ready in a way they had not in some time (except for his single mech invasion of the _Nemesis_ , though he had paid for that with an aching spinal strut for cycles afterward) and his engine was tense with unspent energy. It was almost like being on the edge of overcharged, though with none of the disorientation that came with it. If anything, his processor felt clearer.

“That normal?” Wheeljack asked.

“It’s nothing, symptom of exertion,” Ratchet said, but he saw the way Wheeljack’s optics narrowed at him. “What?”

“Just want to know that you’re sure,” Wheeljack said, raising his cube to his lips without looking away.

“Of course I am,” Ratchet said, his tone sharper than necessary. For the most part, the team was good about not nagging him about his condition, but there were moments they would forget he was a _doctor_ and understood how bodies were supposed to work. “I’ve got my diagnostic feed up right here, it says—”

[[ _Emergence protocols engaged._ ]]

Ratchet straightened up.

His optics flashed.

“Sc _rap_.”

Optimus met them on the way. They heard him first, his powerful engine echoing through the empty streets, before he flung himself around a corner, his Earth-mode tires unable to grip the slick surface and sending him skidding into an empty storefront. The glass hadn’t finished shattering before he was transforming and pulling himself from the rubble, racing back to where Ratchet and Wheeljack stood frozen in the street.

“Ra—”

“Primus’ _sake_ , Optimus,” Ratchet said, stopping him short with a firm glare. “It’s not coming _yet_. Don’t make me have to do surgery on you while our bitlet’s emerging!”

“I’m sorry.” Optimus shrunk, glancing down before back to Ratchet. “…How are you feeling?”

Ratchet held his glare a moment longer before he slumped, reaching forward to pull his bonded close.

“Fine. Glad you’re here.” A hand pressed protectively to his back eased away the rest of his tension.

Optimus held him until Ratchet pulled away, though they made up for the distance by entwining their fingers. Optimus then kneeled, optic level with Ratchet’s midsection, and touched it reverently.

“I am so excited to meet you, little one,” he said, causing Ratchet’s spark to spin with a bundle of emotions.

“Don’t get too excited yet,” he warned, though he put his hand over Optimus’. “They still won’t be making their appearance for a while.”

“I’ve been excited since the moment you told me.” He pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s belly before he stood up. “We should return to base. Would you prefer to walk, or would you like a ride?”

Ratchet was still feeling the sensation of being overenergized, but his pedes were already sore from walking out here.

“I’ll take a ride,” he decided. For once, it was easy to ignore the nagging at the back of his processor that they were doing this backwards and he should be offering Optimus. He climbed gratefully onto the bed of Optimus’ cab, rolling his optics at the smirk and wave Wheeljack sent before he transformed to follow them.

The ride back to their new base was uneventful, which gave Ratchet time to review his diagnostics and make sure everything was progressing was expected. When the road was smooth, he could even focus on his physical progression, the slight pinch and tug as his internals shifted experimentally. It was a strange feeling, slightly uncomfortable but not painful, though he knew it would become more pronounced the further into the process he progresses.

The sparkling, disturbed from their rest, gave a hearty kick that caused Ratchet to wince. He rubbed his belly, trying to gently coax them back down.

“Not you, too,” he grumbled, though he could not keep the smile off his face.

Although Optimus had made no formal announcement, his desperate flight from base had clued the team in to the situation and they were all waiting expectantly when the trio returned. Arcee was standing at a computer console, trying to make it seem like she had stayed busy in Optimus’ absence, but Bulkhead and Bumblebee stared openly as Optimus drove in.

“Bipbip?” Bumblebee asked.

“No, it’s not here yet,” Ratchet said as he climbed off Optimus. “Obviously.”

Optimus transformed and immediately had a protective arm over his shoulders.

“I’ll be with Ratchet throughout most of the process,” Optimus said, his professionalism nonetheless marred by the disregard he had shown it earlier. He looked like he was trying very hard to ignore that. “Arcee, I trust you to handle standard operations in my absence.”

“Of course, Optimus.” She nodded, before her focus turned to Ratchet. “Your choice: encouragement or pretend like this isn’t a big deal?”

“Are you implying it is?” Ratchet asked. “I’m hardly the first bot to go into emergence.” The last known case might have happened before the dawn of human civilization, but that was nowhere near enough time for anything to have significantly changed. He knew what he was getting into.

“Irreverence it is,” Arcee said, and she turned back to her work. Bulkhead and Bumblebee followed her lead, though Bumblebee kept glancing back as Ratchet and Optimus retreated to their quarters.

They were just out of the room when she followed it up.

“This is what we’ve been planning for.”

Ratchet leaned into Optimus’ side as he tried to remind himself of that. This is what they had been working towards and building up to. Somehow, hope for the future had turned into an actionable plan, and now they were on the cusp of seeing it through, one conclusion bleeding into another beginning.

Ratchet’s spark clenched and spun, overwhelmed with the conflicting emotions, and before he realized it was happening his sirens released an aborted beep. He froze.

“Ratchet?” Optimus asked.

They had almost made it; a few steps away and they would have been in the privacy of their room, where at least he would have had a door to create the illusion of privacy. In the middle of the hallway, though, he could not pretend the rest of the team had not heard, and his mortification combined with stress and the wriggling discomfort of emergence caused them to _shriek_ back on, their distinctive sound echoing into every corner of the base.

“Oh _Primus_ fraggit I’m—slag, I’m sorry, I can’t—” He could barely hear himself over the noise. Worse yet, he could not get them to turn off, the code to control them jumbled and looping through his chaotic emotional centers. Optimus was talking, but he could not make out the words, and he was only dimly aware as he was herded through the opening door of their room and into the nest Optimus had reconstructed in their new home.

There, Optimus pulled him down and held him while his sirens continued to wail, and Ratchet could do nothing to reciprocate the comfort while his processor swirled in its signature blend of anxiety. Only as the threads started to settle on their own and the volume dim was he able to reach back and hold on, pressing himself to Optimus’ front.

“Thank you,” he said as his sirens let out a final _bip_ and fell silent. “Don’t know where that came from.”

“We’re having a sparkling, Ratchet,” Optimus said. “It’s surprised me you haven’t cried more.”

Ratchet wanted to be shocked at that, offended, but there was no judgement in Optimus’ voice, and when he pressed a kiss to the crest of Ratchet’s helm it was loving instead of patronizing.

“Couldn’t,” he said. “Had to be strong for you, the team, the bitlet. No time to fall apart like that.”

“It’s not falling apart,” Optimus said. “It’s opening up.” He stroked his broad hands across Ratchet’s back, his sides. When he reached Ratchet’s belly, he let himself linger there, no doubt feeling the slight tremors of Ratchet’s internals as they shifted.

“Your spark,” Ratchet said. “Can I—”

No more words were needed. Optimus sat up and helped Ratchet roll onto his back, keeping his touches gentle even as Ratchet gripped him fiercely. His chest plates parted then folded back, the familiar, warm light of his spark pushing to the fore. Ratchet let go with one hand so he could reach to it, play his fingers through its outer corona. Optimus sighed and leaned into the touch.

“Yours,” he said. “May I?”

He barely finished his question before Ratchet’s panels were folding away, the light of his spark reflected in the eyes of his bonded. Optimus’ smile was something brilliant and strained, and for a moment Ratchet worried he might start crying, too, so he adjusted his grip and pulled Optimus down. His spark, sensing the proximity of its beloved, reached out instinctually, and they caught each other, their fields tangling as they illuminated one another.

“I love you,” Ratchet said, even when it felt inadequate compared to the feelings their sparks projected to each other, commitment and adoration rolling together and filling the space between them. “I love you both so much.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Optimus said, pressing back with his own love. “You have been the most wonderful sire, and I so look forward to what comes next.”

In that moment, Ratchet forgot about the discomfort of emergence and the impending, overwhelming responsibility of parenthood looming over them. It was just him and Optimus, their bitlet safe and loved between them, and the knowledge that, despite everything, they had done their best. They had gotten this far, and they would keep going. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allllmost to baby robot, we're so close!
> 
> If you happened to glance at the chapter count, this is the penultimate chapter! Wow! Mixed feelings about saying goodbye to this fic, but we’re not there yet, so I’ll save those thoughts for next week. Thank you again so much!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for semi-graphic robot birth.

Ratchet tried to recharge, but it was restless; he would just dip out of consciousness when a systems alert would bring him back out of it again. The wording and numbers changed with each one, but the message was always the same: everything was progressing as expected and without complications. Why it was essential for him to have that information, he did not know, but he suspected it was a final attempt on the part of his body to make him question why he had agreed to go through with all of this.

Well, tough. He was committed, excited, and utterly trapped, and nothing in the universe could make him regret his choices. That didn’t mean he couldn’t grumble about it when morning came and he was still perilously low on rest.

He curled closer into Optimus, who petted him gently with his broad hand. He had stayed by Ratchet’s side throughout the night, soothing him back into recharge every time his systems dragged him out, and even now mumbled a quiet apology as he extricated himself from their nest. He returned a moment later, energon cubes in hand, and helped Ratchet sit up.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Tired,” he said. “And energized. Both at once.” The microtransformations had continued throughout the night, steadily becoming more insistent as his internals were puzzled out of the sparkling’s evacuation route.

Optimus offered him fuel and he drained half the cube without tasting it. Optimus watched him for a moment before his optics became unfocused, the signature look of a mech checking an incoming comm.

“Emergency?” Ratchet asked around the rim of his cube. “Let me guess: the Thirteen have risen again. No, wait, Starscream went back on his word _and_ stumbled across the Matrix of Conquest.”

“I’m not sure you will consider it any less dire, but the children have arrived on Cybertron,” Optimus said. “They hope to meet the sparkling.”

That was hardly a surprise. Ratchet shrugged and went back to sipping his fuel, going slower now that he had a shred of self-control back. He ran his free hand over the curve of his abdomen. At some point in the night, a bisecting seam had materialized along the plating, not unlike the nanotransformations that preceded a spark merge.

“Do you want anyone else in the room?” Optimus asked. They had discussed this already, but Ratchet had been in a different state of mind then, not weighed down by the heady mix of emotions mid-emergence coding produced.

“No,” he still said, “just us. You’re about the only person in the universe I can handle right now.” As if on cue, there was a drawn-out tug somewhere deep inside him, followed by a subtle _pop_ that had Ratchet gasping as he leaned forward.

“What happened?” Optimus asked, all casual pretense gone as he once more curled close to Ratchet’s side.

“Central fuel line just disconnected,” Ratchet said, trying to track the internal changes that were coming now more rapidly. “They’re—here, help me up, help me up.”

With Optimus’ assistance, he was able to push himself into a kneeling position with his hands braced on his knees, curled around his belly. The quality of his internal sensations had changed rapidly, going from shifting to squeezing as cables tensed around the newly freed gestation chamber. Optimus had one hand on the small of his back, the other hovering in front in case the sparkling suddenly decided to accelerate their departure, though Ratchet doubted that was any danger of that happening.

“They’re a stubborn thing to the last, aren’t they?” he grunted, wincing against the growing pressure that nonetheless seemed to do little to move the blasted thing.

“I can’t imagine where they might have picked that up,” Optimus said, laying his hand atop Ratchet’s own.

“You’re—oof— _lucky_ I’m in love with you,” Ratchet said, then gasped as the tension in his cables released and the solid mass of his sparkling started to shift forward. His abdominal plating twitched, parting wider just a moment before shutting again, like an eye starting to blink open.

“I know.” Optimus adjusted so he was sitting behind Ratchet, legs bracketing him and arms wrapped around his middle, fingers linking over the peak of his belly. “You have given me so much: companionship, care, and now hope for the future. What am I, if not fortunate?”

Because of their positions, there was no way Optimus could have seen his expression, and yet still Ratchet felt the need to duck his head.

“Don’t—don’t say things like that while I’m in the middle of emergence,” he said. “I can’t take you seriously.”

“Noted. When will be a better time?”

Ratchet was saved from having to answer as his vocalizer let out a long, low groan, his body arching back into Optimus as every cable in him tensed at once and his gestation chamber inched forward. Under Optimus’ palms, his plating opened again, and he heard his bonded’s quick intake.

“Keep going,” Optimus said, all notes of teasing gone from his voice. “Primus, Ratchet, you’re doing so well. Don’t stop.”

Ratchet would have snapped that he did not have a _choice_ in the matter, but his body decided to illustrate the point for him as it redoubled its efforts, a systems-wide _clench_ that caused his optics to short out. When he got them back online, it was to the brilliant view of a shiny, lubricant-slicked construct pressing against the opening in his plating.

“Slag,” he said as his systems wound down in what he knew would be only a temporary reprieve.

Optimus shifted, likely trying to get his first glimpse of the bitlet. Ratchet did not know if he was successful, but that did not stop his hands from stroking the mound where it protruded slightly from Ratchet’s form. Ratchet didn’t think anything in the universe could have made him look away.

“Are we going to teach our sparkling to swear?”

He whipped his helm around, meeting Optimus’ bright optics over his shoulder.

“ _What?_ ”

“I only ever met one sparkling personally, and their creators were very insistent prior to our introduction that I was not to use profanities around them. I’ve been wondering if it’s a practice you would like to continue.”

“I have a _person_ hanging out of me, Optimus.”

Optimus’ optics cycled, readjusting their focus.

“Right,” he said. “A conversation for later.”

Ratchet had more to say about it, but his respite was already over. As though aware its labor was almost at an end, his body threw all its reserves into a final push. His plating fluttered open before retracting wide, and at last the forces of pressure and gravity pitched their sparkling forward into Optimus’ waiting hands. Ratchet collapsed back, relying wholly on Optimus’ strength to keep him upright, as every strut in his frame seemed to relax at once.

“—done so well,” he heard Optimus murmuring into his audial once he regained awareness of the world.

Ratchet did not know how to respond, so focused on angling his helm down. There, cradled in Optimus’ careful hold, was the segmented pod, the last barrier between him and his sparkling. Though his arms still felt weak, he reached for them, and Optimus transferred them immediately, hands hovering nearby to steady Ratchet’s as he tucked them against his chest.

“Hey bit,” he said. “No need to be shy, now.”

There was movement inside the pod, and then a sliver of the plating opened, just wide enough to catch two blue optics through the dim. Ratchet’s spark squeezed.

“Oh, Optimus,” he breathed.

Optimus wrapped his arms around Ratchet once more and held him close, keeping his family secure.

“Hello, little one,” Optimus said, his voice so thick with emotion that Ratchet felt its vibrations throughout his plating. He was sure the bitlet did, too, as they opened their shell wider, their tiny yet powerful field projecting their curiosity. They startled when Optimus reached up to caress the pod, then slid their panels fully open, twisting as though trying to see the source of the strange new sensation.

“Fearless,” Ratchet said, smiling though he was too tired to laugh. “I knew you would be trouble.”

Finally exposed to the light, he was able to take in their muted colors, splotchy dark grey mixed with standard sparkling silver. When they moved, the light caught shimmers of orange that could develop into secondary pigments later, though it was far too dispersed to figure out a pattern yet. He delighted in the discovery of proto-axels on their shoulders, and two further on each leg, the earliest evidence of their chosen alt mode. Touching them caused the bitlet to squirm, kicking their feet out before their little hands grabbed for Ratchet’s finger.

“They know you,” Optimus said. “They already love you as much as we love them.”

Ratchet was not sure how that was possible, given the way his fully-grown spark seemed close to overwhelmed with all that he felt for the small being in his arms, but he decided not to dispute it, instead lifting his sparkling to press a kiss to their helm.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, affirming the promise he had made what felt like a lifetime ago.

For the little one, technically, it was. Ratchet pulled back, still enchanted, and they smiled when they caught sight of his optics, letting go of his finger to reach toward his face instead. Unable to deny the obvious request, Ratchet leaned forward and sighed, nuzzling his creation as they patted him with palms open wide.

Despite wanting to soak in this moment longer, the combination of stress, exhaustion, and exertion caught up to him all at once, and recharge finally sought him out as eagerly as he had pursued it earlier. He started to drift off still leaned against Optimus with their bitlet in his arms, and he was barely roused by Optimus lowering him back into the plush safety of their nest.

When he next came online, it was to the sound of humming, a deep melody that he had not heard in eons. He stayed still, his systems idling at their lowest setting, and simply listened, until the weight of his sparkling on his chest shifted and he decided to online his optics.

Optimus lay on his side next to them, optics on their sparkling as he rubbed a cleaning rag over their half-open turtle shell in time with the song. Two bright optics watched him, entranced.

“Here.” Ratchet gathered the sparkling in both hands and raised them off his chest. The little body squirmed, arms reaching back toward familiar safety, but in a moment they were pressed securely to their other creator’s chest, held there as Optimus’ hands came up to cradle them. He continued his humming without pause, looking away from the sparkling just long enough to flash Ratchet a brilliant smile before he returned his full attention to their creation. Ratchet watched them for as long as he could, until his optics lost the fight to stay on and he slipped back into recharge.

A harsh sound, like an alarm, punctured Ratchet’s dreams, and he woke up instantly, searching for the source of the commotion. His optics fell on the bundle attached to Optimus’ chest, the bitlet’s shell retracted so there was nothing to dull the next piercing beep. Optimus was blinking at the noisy sparkling, not quite awake enough to understand what was being asked of him.

“Low fuel,” Ratchet said, reaching over to rub the bitlet’s shell and try to soothe them while Optimus fumbled with his wrist port. He was successful in retrieving and unspooling his feeding line, and there was only a moment’s hesitation before the hungry sparkling accepted the offered nub, keeping one hand on Optimus’ chassis while the other gripped the line. Ratchet watched his sparkling feed before turning to Optimus, pressing a kiss to his temple. Optimus turned and caught his lips, and Ratchet felt like his spark might go supernova.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, having barely pulled away.

Optimus’ lips quirked.

“Wonderful,” he said. From anyone else, it would have sounded sarcastic, but Optimus’ field bled sincerity. “What about _you_?”

“What? A bot can’t go through emergence without everyone fussing over him?” He laughed. “I’m much the same. My frame feels like I let Astrotrain roll over it a few times, but, well…” He turned to look at their sparkling, still suckling but with their optics pointed up, toward their creators. Startled by the attention, the nub fell from their mouth, and their field bloomed again. Optimus and Ratchet’s fields surrounded it, encouraging and supportive, and the little bit smiled, excitedly patting their palms on Optimus’ windshield. Ratchet reached forward, using his finger to wipe away the dribble of energon on their chin.

“How do you feel about making introductions?” he asked without looking away.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Optimus said. “I’ve been keeping the team updated. The children especially are eager to meet this one, but Bumblebee and Bulkhead are keeping them distracted.”

“Even with the war over, the work of an Autobot never ceases,” Ratchet said. He started to sit up, waving away Optimus’ attempt to help. “Come, let’s go relieve them.”

Ratchet had not been worried in the least about the team’s reaction, but the genuine joy and affection his sparkling was met with was a relief nonetheless. Miko squealed, Bee sighed fondly. Even Wheeljack paused, taking in the sight of Cybertron’s newest resident. The sparkling, held with their back against Ratchet’s chest, stared at the group with bright optics, their field a tremble of trepidation and curiosity.

“So cute,” Raf said, a factually correct statement. Ratchet’s sparkling was adorable.

“Can she transform yet?” Miko asked.

“Her t-cog’s not developed enough,” Ratchet said, tapping the bitlet’s abdomen and earning a quick glance before the group of strangers was deemed more interesting. “She can operate her shell, but her vehicle mode won’t be making an appearance until at least her second upgrade.”

“Wait, she?” Jack said. The space suit made it harder to see his expression, and humans were already hard to read without the benefit of EM fields, but he sounded surprised. “It’s—she’s a girl?”

Optimus, who had been standing by and watching quietly, now looked confused.

“She’s a truck,” he said.

“Cybertronian pronouns are more complicated than English,” Arcee said, kneeling down beside the humans. “There’s no perfect translation. For English, we just went by whatever the humans called us.”

“And Miko—”

“Just called dibs,” Miko finished for him. She leaned proudly on one hip, then reached up with her opposite hand. “So? C’mon, Ratchet, can’t we take a closer look?”

Ratchet checked in with the bit—still happy—and with Optimus’ help knelt to the children’s level. They stepped closer, perhaps as nervous as the sparkling herself, but fascination prevailed. Even Arcee leaned forward for a better look, and the movement caught the little one’s attention, wandering optics suddenly focused as she kicked, the edges of her shell fluttering.

Arcee hesitated, then smiled, reaching forward to offer her hand.

“Hi,” she said.

“Roller!”

The humans froze. Ratchet laughed.

“Did she just—”

“Was starting to wonder,” Ratchet said, turning his bit around so he could kiss her head. She squirmed, trying to turn back to look at Arcee, and squeaked again.

“Roller!”

Optimus leaned in beside Ratchet, his voice finally drawing the bitlet’s attention away from Arcee.

“Hello, little Roller,” he said, reaching forward to stroke a finger along her tiny cheek. “What a joy to finally know your name.”

Roller settled some with the contact, but her optics were still bright and she kept fidgeting, aborted movements that corresponded with an active field. Ratchet lifted her to his chest, lightly rubbing her shell.

“She can talk?” Raf asked.

“Some,” Optimus said. “Her name, and that of her carrier.” It was a feature more useful for a time when Cybertron had been more crowded and her parentage would not have been known by the planet’s entire population, but Ratchet was still grateful to know her name now. It made the whole thing feel more real, though this was aided by the way she was growing heavier in his arms.

“Seems like she’s had enough,” he said, keeping his voice down so as not to excite her again. He tried to stand but found that it was too much to ask of his weary frame while also holding a sparkling. Arcee stepped forward and he offered his bitlet over, then accepted Optimus’ help getting up.

It was a brief exchange, but noticeable for Roller, who had never been out of her creators’ arms before. Whatever had fascinated her with Arcee before was entirely forgotten, as now her optics were all for them, little hands reaching back.

“Optimus,” she warbled.

This time, Ratchet did freeze, looking to his sparkling and trying to determine whether he had heard right.

“Optimus,” she repeated, intentions becoming more pronounced. Arcee glanced between creators and creation, obviously uncertain.

Optimus glanced at Ratchet. Unsure what to feel, what to do, he simply nodded toward their bitlet.

“It’s okay, little one,” Optimus said. He stepped forward, accepting Roller, and tucking her against his chest the way he had as they recharged, petting her shell as he turned back to Ratchet. “It’s alright.”

But still, Roller seemed dismayed. She did not lean into the hold as she had before, but continued to look around, arms reaching and optics searching…

For Ratchet.

“Optimus!” she said, as soon as her optics fell on him.

Her creators’ optics met, and then Ratchet found himself once more holding his bitlet, her head pressed against his chest plating as at last she relaxed, her voice drifting into happy murmurs as she repeated over and over the two names she knew. He felt the warmth of his spark reaching throughout his frame, its center directly underneath Roller's helm.

“So, does she think your name is Optimus, or that you’re Optimus?” Bulkhead asked.

Ratchet shook his head, so focused on Roller he almost missed the question.

“It’s—”

“Complicated,” Arcee said. “We know. When is it not?” She was smiling, though, at ease now that Roller was happy again. She patted Ratchet’s shoulder, just forceful enough to nudge him back toward his room. “She knows who you are to her.”

Ratchet looked down at the innocent being tucked against his chest.

The children were sad to say goodbye already, but were understanding, especially with the promise that they would be able to come back to visit in the future. Eventually, Ratchet hoped for Roller to see Earth, but he did not bring that up yet lest he have Miko hounding him for the next few decades. Instead, he and Optimus walked back to their hab suite quietly, their attention on Roller as she slipped once more into recharge.

They stopped just inside their room and Optimus leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ratchet’s helm.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” Ratchet said, and it was directed at both of them. Because no matter how screwed up his coding might have been, that was what it essentially boiled down to: love. From creator to creation, and vice-versa. Though it might take months for Roller to learn his name, she would know the whole time that he was the bot who loved her with all his spark, who would nurture and care for and defend her, and that Optimus would reawaken a whole planet and come back alive for her.

It didn’t matter whether one or the other was her sire. In the end, it all meant the same thing: they were hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done!
> 
> It's not an exaggeration to say that this fic would not have been written without people reading it. So, if you're here, reading this now, thanks! You're the reason it got this far! And big, huge thanks to the people who commented. There were some weeks I really needed the motivation and y'all totally came through.
> 
> My feelings about the fic overall are very mixed. Suffice to say, I'm never going into a multi-chapter without a solid outline ever again :P There are some scenes that came out of it that I really like, though, and little Roller stole my heart there right at the end, so I'm content with how it ended up. This fic was more reader-influenced than my previous works, so if there is anything further you would like to see out of this verse, feel free to let me know.
> 
> Hope you're all well, and thanks again!


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